HOUSE OF USHER
by AndiiV
Summary: A story focussing on the character of Cort and his adventures as the new town marshal of Redemption. Every day is a battle as Cort tries to reconcile faith with the violent demands of his new job. Things are further complicated by a flashy, big time preacher who seems to be taking a special interest in him. If you like, please review. It's like Klondike gold.
1. Prologue

_PROLOGUE_

**Cort was back in purgatory. **

And the worst of it was he knew he deserved it.

He lay sprawled face-down in the desert dirt, exactly where he'd fallen hours before. At least it felt like hours, it might only have been minutes, he had no way of telling. Time had passed though because it was getting cold and last time he'd opened his eyes it was dark. He'd smelled food cooking and his empty stomach growled in response but he was too tired and sick to eat, even if any of it should happen to come his way, which he doubted. He was too exhausted even to move and since moving hurt like hell anyway, it was easier to stay put. He drifted in and out of sleep, which might have been unconsciousness; the only thing he could smell now was the blood and sweat on his own body.

Something large but soft hit his cheek and he heard it thud away into the sand. He didn't really care what it was, only that it hadn't hurt, but a painful jerk of the manacles on his wrists and Ratsy's nasal whine of a voice, slurring slightly, soon informed him.

"There's your supper preacher, eat it before it goes cold."

They both had a good laugh at that, Ratsy and Foy, and he finally forced his eyes open and raised his head just enough to look over at them. It took a while to focus but he saw what he'd expected, his two tormentors sitting around a campfire and chugging from a bottle of whisky. The other end of the long chain attached to his shackles, his own personal leash, was in Ratsy's fist and he hoped to God the bastard didn't keep yanking on it. He didn't think his arms could take much more abuse but also knew that as they got drunker they'd dream up increasingly creative ways to hurt and humiliate him. He'd found that out last night and was bone weary of being their object of recreational violence. Cort glared, loathing the sight of them, wishing he had a gun in his hand right now.

Foy glanced across at him, caught the look and his face hardened.

"Quit staring like that, preacher, I ain't in the mood for fire and brimstone."

He lumbered unsteadily to his feet and lurched over. Cort braced himself, waiting for another blow to land but instead Foy stooped to retrieve something then dropped a hunk of bread into the dirt next to him.

"Don't go dying on us you hear? Mister Herod needs you alive."

He couldn't eat, not now, and it was one of the few things they couldn't force him to do. Maybe he'd try later. Right now the physical effort of lifting his head had set it spinning and pounding again; a wonderful little combination of concussion, heatstroke and dehydration. It made it hard to think straight, to remember how he'd arrived at this sorry, Godforsaken place. Did he even want to remember?

He stumbled around in a chaos of scattered thoughts before spotting the elusive recollection and he grasped at it before it could flitter away. And once more he saw the vision he knew he'd never forget as long as he lived; which might not be too much longer, all things considered.

The mission, _his_ mission, his home for the past three years, burning before his eyes as he lay in the mud, chained like a dog. Ratsy's boot between his shoulder blades and a shotgun aimed at his head. Ratsy and Foy were laughing, complementing each other on a successful night's work. They'd been laughing as they'd beaten him almost senseless too, clearly enjoying it and Cort cursed himself for not putting up some kind of fight. Even though he was unarmed and they were carrying guns, even though they'd taken him completely by surprise and he'd sworn to renounce violence, if he'd known they were going to torch his church he would have died trying to protect it. It was the only thing he'd ever really cared about.

He'd spent much of the next two days wishing he really was dead. The butt of Ratsy's shotgun slamming into his left temple finished his view of the burning chapel and he'd awoken to the heat of a desert morning, with the headache from hell, tied across the saddle of a horse with a blood-streaked flank. He'd thought the animal was injured until he'd come to realise the blood was his own. Once Foy and Ratsy saw he'd regained consciousness they decided his horse needed a rest and told him he could walk for a while. Actually they made him walk most of the day, on the end of that long chain, and the pace was always too fast to be comfortable. More often than not he'd been dragged along, shoulders aching with the constant strain, the iron manacles twisting and chaffing on his wrists, sweat and sand rubbing his skin raw. A few times Ratsy found it amusing to kick his horse into a fast canter, seeing how long Cort could keep up before falling over. It was never long.

So ended day one, chained to a dead tree with half a loaf of stale bread and a cup of water for nourishment. Ratsy and Foy entertained themselves by throwing bits of their own supper at him and, later on, stones and rocks. If he forgot to grunt or moan when they hit, or if he fell asleep long enough not to notice, one of them would come over and kick him, making sure he was still alive. As they got drunker the blows grew heavier. It didn't stop until they'd drunk themselves to sleep.

Day two wasn't much of an improvement and it was still another full day's ride – or walk in Cort's case - to Redemption. Whatever John Herod had lined up for him there would probably make this little trip seem quite pleasant.

Something smacked against Cort's head, pitching him out of the not-so-pleasant reverie. It seemed as though Foy and Ratsy had begun their evening's sport. He remembered to moan, to let them know he'd felt it. It was better than another kick in the ribs or guts. Now his head was hurting even worse and the welcoming chasm of unconsciousness was yawning before him. He fought it, didn't want to fall all the way in. God only knew what might befall him while passed out. Now he was only dimly aware of anything beyond pain, discomfort and utter exhaustion, but it seemed like there was a new voice in the camp.

Opening his eyes was beyond contemplation so Cort strained his ears, certain he must be imagining or hallucinating the sound, but there it was again. He heard his own name mentioned, heard Ratsy's voice rise in some kind of protest, but couldn't make out any of the conversation. Footsteps approached and he tensed, waiting for the blow which didn't come. Finally he had no choice but to open his eyes and try to figure out what was happening. He got a bleary look at a man standing over him and then the stranger squatted down, reaching out a hand. Cort flinched away but the man smiled.

"Easy son, I'm not gonna hurt you."

Cort was transfixed by the man's eyes, the kind you didn't forget in a hurry. They were ice blue and seemed to be boring right into his soul. They were tempered with compassion and something else he couldn't quite read.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend."

Cort focussed on what he was holding. It was water canteen and right now it looked like heaven on earth. He rolled onto his side and reached awkwardly for it. The chains made every movement difficult but all he cared about was getting at the flask. He drained its contents in one long, breathless draught and handed it back to its owner with a pang of remorse.

"I didn't mean to take it all, but I can't remember the last time…"

The man smiled and patted his shoulder.

"You're welcome, Cort. It's the least I can do. I'll pray for you, son."

Cort frowned, how could this stranger know his name? He'd never seen him before. He opened his mouth to ask but the man was already striding back to the campfire, over to Foy and Ratsy. This time Cort could hear his words clearly and they didn't sound friendly.

"That's a man of the cloth you've got there, you should treat him more kindly."

Ratsy's snivelling voice, protesting: 'Hell mister we only got…"

The man took a step closer, silencing him. "If you don't, I'll come looking for you, understand?"

The threat was unmistakable and seemed to register even in Ratsy's whisky-addled brain.

"Whatever you say." Ratsy looked over and Cort could see disappointment written all over his face.

He smiled then instantly regretted it. It made his jaw ache.


	2. Chapter One

**A crash brought Cort** rudely to his senses and he spat out a curse. It was automatic, out of his mouth before he'd registered what he'd said but two passing women got an earful. Two pairs of accusing eyes swivelled in his direction.

"I never heard a preacher use language like that."

She said it loud enough for anybody in the vicinity to hear and Cort felt his face redden. While he was certain they'd both heard a lot worse, probably from their own husbands, the part of him that had once been a priest was embarrassed at having used those particular words. He inclined his head towards the woman who'd spoken.

"I apologise for the outburst ma'am, but I'm not a preacher anymore."

"More's the pity, young man. You should keep your manners in mind, especially when there's ladies present." She eyed him severely then grabbed her friend's sleeve and they headed towards the general store.

Cort watched them go, knowing they'd spread this unsavoury finding all over town, then glanced around for whatever had woken him from his unplanned evening siesta. It looked like somebody had thrown a heap of wood from the roof of the blown-out building opposite and he relaxed, it was nothing that needed his intervention right now. He took a reflective sip of beer from the bottle beside him on the hotel veranda and rubbed at the scabs on his wrists.

He could still remember every detail of that interminable journey, as evidenced by his recent dream, when all he wanted to do was forget. It had taken the best part of three weeks but his body had pretty much gotten over the damage inflicted by Ratsy, Foy and the ugliness associated with the shooting contest. Cort flexed his right hand, his gun hand. It still hurt a little but he could use it just fine which was fortunate. Redemption was currently a beacon to every outlaw, drunk, undesirable and opportunist for miles around. With John Herod gone they figured it was open season, but they'd reckoned without the presence of the new, able but not entirely willing Town Marshal.

Cort thought about going inside the hotel to get another beer. He'd been drinking too much lately, knew people were starting to gossip, but if they didn't like it they could shove it. It wasn't stopping him doing the job, sometimes it helped and it wasn't like he was getting paid for it anyway. He'd been promised a decent wage, eventually, but right now the town was flat broke and he was living on the charity of its people, reliant on them for food and lodging while running up sizeable tabs in the saloon and liquor store.

Cort wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to become marshal; sometimes it seemed an act of certain suicide. He was totally alone here; no backup, no deputies, not even a cell to lock up the worst offenders and more of them seemed to arrive with every passing day. He'd gotten by so far on reputation, rapidly revived and heavily exaggerated following Herod's death. _Cort the Killer_, John Herod's most ruthless deputy, still the fastest gun in the territory and currently acting as a lawman. It was like a rallying cry for every desperado within earshot to come try his luck. One day soon Cort knew his luck was going to run out.

The marshal's office was in the process of being rebuilt, having lain in ruins for the longest time, and Cort looked forward to the day it was done. At least then he'd have a home of sorts. Then perhaps he might stop feeling so restless, disconnected and abjectly alone. It was like everybody in Redemption was keeping him at arm's length; afraid to let him go but even more afraid to accept him into their society. He supposed he could understand it. The people of this town, the decent ones at least, had lived in terror for so long they found it difficult to trust anybody who hadn't suffered the extended reign of tyranny alongside them. While Cort had suffered too, and the whole town watched it happen, nobody had helped him then and nobody wanted to know him now, except when they were in trouble. He supposed he understood that too.

To hell with it, he was getting another beer. He brought it back outside and resumed his evening vigil. He liked to see who was coming and going and it was usually around sundown when anybody intent on causing trouble would head towards the saloon. The hotel veranda was a good vantage point, offering clear views to both ends of town and if things stayed settled he could sit out here, quietly drinking until he was sure he could sleep. Then it was only a short stagger to his room upstairs.

His peripheral vision caught movement in the street and he tensed, his hand moving instinctively to the army colt on his right hip, but it was only Foy slinking over to the bordello. When he saw Cort he lowered his head and scuttled inside. Cort glowered after him. He'd known that bastard was still in town but with his boss and best buddy in the ground, Foy had been keeping a low profile, avoiding the new marshal like his life depended on it. Seeing him again reminded Cort of something he needed to do. He'd finish this beer then maybe he'd go do it.

His mind returned to the dream: half dead in the desert with only the promise of more pain and humiliation to come. The man in the dream, that stranger with the piercing blue eyes had pretty much saved his life but Cort wasn't even sure he was real. Something about the encounter chilled him to the bone but he was convinced he hadn't imagined it. That stranger had put the fear of God into Ratsy and Foy. It over-rode John Herod's grip of iron and they began treating him better. They'd let him sleep all night, fed and watered him properly for the rest of the journey and allowed him to actually ride his horse. Of course it all went to shit as soon as they reached Redemption, but he was at least better prepared to deal with it.

The stranger had known his name and that bothered Cort, but the respect shown for his former calling bothered him more. It reinforced the guilt and self-loathing which sometimes threatened to overwhelm him completely. How had God's loyal and devout servant so quickly disregarded his faith when somebody put a gun back into his hand? Cort felt as though the past three years of his life had been a lie and, worse than that, a delusion.

He was no preacher, he knew that now, and God surely despised him for deceiving his congregation in Hermasillo. Perhaps the persistent dream was God's way of telling him something fundamental. Cort suspected he was headed for purgatory and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. He finished his beer and sighed. He'd need to get royally drunk tonight.

He made his way over to the bordello. He'd not set foot inside since Ratsy had dragged him there nearly three weeks ago and he wasn't entirely comfortable going in now. He'd been no stranger to this kind of place back in the bad old days with Herod and the gang, but afterwards there had been the three year vow of chastity. It had slipped now and then for sure, and he wasn't proud of that, but the women had always come to him first and he'd always been too weak to resist.

Eugene Dred, the original bordello owner, had been killed during Herod's shooting contest and one of the whores had stepped up swiftly to fill his shoes. She called herself Madame Rochelle and seemed pleased enough to see Cort. She greeted him with a knowing smile as he entered the parlour and poured him a glass of whisky.

"If it ain't our pretty marshal dropped by to say howdy. The girls been taking bets on how long you'd take to show up."

Cort's face burned and he lowered his head, looking through his fringe to scan the room for other occupants. Fortunately it was empty. He approached the bar and drained the whisky in one draught. Rochelle filled him up again and he eyed her nervously.

"I'm not here for the regular services, ma'am; I'm here because I need…"

She misunderstood and flashed him a wicked grin.

"Easy marshal, we all heard how it is right now. Anything you need is on the house you hear? Anything you like. Kitty's a sweet young thing and she's had her eye on you for a while."

Cort blushed again and tried to find a way out of this hole. His silence sent another errant message.

"Kitty!" Rochelle's voice almost deafened him as she yelled up the stairs. "Get down here now sweetheart, somebody to see you."

He tossed down the second glass of whisky and placed the glass on the counter.

"I didn't come here for a woman. I'm here to speak to Foy and I know for a fact he's in one of your rooms".

Her face dropped; the disappointment clear. "He's up in room four but he's busy. Might not take kindly to being interrupted."

Cort smiled. "I'm counting on that."

He made his way upstairs and the whore named Kitty was waiting for him on the landing. Rochelle was right, she was a sweet little thing but his other business was more urgent. He brushed past her with a rueful grin.

"Sorry honey, maybe some other time."

He found room four and stood outside for a while, listening to the action inside. Foy was making enough noise that Cort had no trouble following the story. He listened to the pace quicken, Foy's grunting rising in volume and just before the crucial moment he banged on the door with all his strength, shaking it in its frame.

"This is the marshal, Foy. Get out here and talk to me."

Foy's groan of utter frustration was unmistakable and Cort smiled. Perfect timing.

"For Christ's sake, marshal, I'm right in the middle of something. Come back later."

"Now Foy, or I'm coming through this door."

A minute later the door opened and Foy stood there with a sheet wrapped around his midriff, glaring at Cort like he was about to kill him.

"You sure got lousy timing. I hope nobody comes calling on _you_ like this when you're entertaining."

"Stow it. I'm here for some answers and I figure three weeks is long enough to be waiting."

Foy's bravado evaporated and he looked ready to shit himself. Cort spotted his whore through the open door, watching the scene with wide, curious eyes and he motioned her to get out. He pushed Foy into the bedroom and closed the door. Foy obviously thought he was about to die because he started babbling.

"I'm sorry what happened but I was only doing what Mister Herod said and if I hadn't he'd have killed me for sure. I read the Bible once and it said turn the other cheek and you being a preacher should know about forgiving and since I ain't even got a gun…"

Cort had heard enough. He shoved Foy in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back onto the bed.

"Shut up, Foy. I'm not here to kill you or listen to your excuses. I want to know is who that man was, out in the desert that night."

Foy's eyes narrowed and he looked shifty.

"Don't _you_ remember him?"

Cort shrugged. "I thought maybe I imagined him since I couldn't see or think straight. You know why that was, don't you?"

Foy at least had the grace to look ashamed.

"I can't take any of that back but you didn't imagine him. He was real enough."

"Who was he?"

Foy's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"That's Henry Usher. Don't you know him?"

Cort shook his head, he'd never heard the name, never even seen the face until three weeks ago.

"I've been out of circulation. Who is he?"

It seemed Foy still couldn't quite believe his ignorance.

"He's only the most powerful preacher in the territory, and he sure was interested in you."


	3. Chapter Two

The sun was dipping below the horizon and its final, blood-red rays splashed directly across the little graveyard on the outskirts of the town called Redemption. As Benedict Carter rode past he turned his head to take in the scene. It seemed to him that the slightly unnatural tint was fitting. This place had obviously seen some major and unprecedented activity of late. There were a lot of recent graves, many of them with no markers, and the original plot had expanded well beyond its original perimeter. Ben noted a few gaping holes in the ground, new graves waiting to receive their unlucky tenants, and he wondered how many more bodies were backed up in the town. He bet that right now it didn't smell too good at the undertaker's.

He caught movement on the far side of the graveyard and reacted instinctively, his right hand moving directly to his gun. He glanced over to determine the cause and relaxed when he saw a dirty looking fellow stumble out of a shack, scratching at his crotch and pulling on a bottle of something. Smoke had begun belching from a hole in the roof of the shelter and Ben guessed the man was a gravedigger who'd elected to live on-site.

Ben didn't want to ride into town in full daylight so he slowed his horse for the final part of the journey. He could see the sparse, almost skeletal outlines of Redemption's buildings, still a mile or so away, and he wondered what he might find there other than a bath and a bed for a couple of nights. He'd met people on the road over the past few weeks, many of them heading here to try their luck, and none of them seemed especially savoury. Like many travellers Ben had given Redemption a wide berth while it was owned and controlled by John Herod. Nobody wanted to mess with that bastard and the smarter ones didn't want to attract his attention in any way at all. Now he was gone the rumours were rife and opportunities for the amoral seemed limitless. Ben imagined some kind of wild, lawless, chaotic free for all where a man was lucky if he survived a night without getting a knife stuck in his ribs.

He was used to places like that, rough living and even rougher towns. His life for the past six months had consisted largely of skulking around frontier settlements, crossing the borders frequently, riding alone, drawing little attention to himself. It was safer that way and while it made for a lonely kind of life, right now it was the smartest way to stay alive. Once his money ran out he'd have some reconsidering to do. Despite his best efforts that day seemed to be fast approaching.

He entered the north end of town at dusk and could see candles and lanterns blinking in windows and out on porches. It looked kind of homely. The first building he came across was the marshal's office, clearly uninhabited since the place was still being built and a load of old wood and debris was dumped in the road outside. They had four walls up, a porch out front, a roof on top and the marshal's sign hung above the door. But there was no glass in the windows and the inside was dark as pitch. Ben wondered what kind of message it was trying to send out; was it an advertisement for men with the right kind of death wish to come tender for the marshal's job? Were the townsfolk hoping it might serve as some kind of deterrent? Whatever the reason they'd sure got it up fast. Ben could see a couple of other buildings which were just blown out shells and nobody seemed in any kind of rush to rebuild those. One persistent rumour he'd heard on the road was how half the town had blown up. That was obviously a major exaggeration and he reckoned it was only one of many.

He carried on down the street, scoping out the whorehouse and saloon, looking around for any signs of a church or chapel, relieved to find none. He hadn't honestly expected Redemption to have gotten religion, not with Herod running things, and for Ben it was one of the town's major attractions. But right now he was concerned only with finding a cheap hotel and getting settled for the night. The town seemed oddly calm, not what he'd been expecting at all. No fistfights in the street or rampaging, drunken gangs intent on causing a riot. No smell of gunpowder on the air. There were even a few people sitting out on their verandas, enjoying the cool of the evening, and he could hear scratchy music in the distance. It made Ben nervous, too many idle eyes about for his taste.

As he was hitching his horse to the rail outside a halfway-respectable looking hotel he heard footsteps approaching and turned, not too quickly, to check out their owner. He was about twenty feet away but even at that distance Ben could see the eyes he encountered now were anything but idle. This man's eyes were sharp, evaluating, dropping slightly to the Remington on Ben's hip, scudding sideways to the horse and two Winchester rifles in the saddle holsters, finally coming to rest calmly but briefly on Ben's face. There was no challenge or reproach in those eyes, but their purpose was unmistakable and Ben knew he was being gauged. The man moved with confidence and an easy assurance which seemed to have little to do with the marshal's badge pinned to his vest. He nodded as he passed and Ben tipped his hat, then turned to watch him head up the steps and into the hotel.

The marshal had disappeared by the time Ben got inside himself and he felt a little prickly as he negotiated himself a room for a couple of nights and stabling for his horse. He had nothing to fear from the regular law but those eyes, so obviously reading him, seemed to have been doing so from the inside out, as though they could see everything that made him tick. Ben shook his head and smiled as he led his horse to the livery behind the hotel and got her settled. He was imagining things was all. It was easy to get twitchy after so long on the run.

It was just the marshal of some insignificant desert town, and he hadn't been the only one sizing-up out in the street. Ben figured he had to be pretty new to the job, John Herod wouldn't have stood for any proper law enforcement in his town, and he was the most raggedy-assed looking lawman Ben had ever seen. Young, little more than thirty, and tall but kind of rangy, like he didn't eat too good. He hadn't shaved in a while and his hair was long and flopping in his face. His clothes, while clean enough, were worn, patched and ill-fitting, like they'd once belonged to a bulkier man. Even the Army Colt on his hip had seen better days. There was nothing flash or showy about that marshal but Ben wasn't fool enough to judge a man on his appearance, or underestimate him because of it. Everything about that fellow's demeanour indicated he could look after himself and that he meant business.

Ben slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and headed up to his room. It was small, spartan and clean enough but, most importantly, the bed was soft. After ten days camping in the desert he was looking forward to a comfortable night's sleep. He dumped his stuff on the bed and checked his pocket watch. It was gone eight and he realised the bathhouse would be shut and he'd have to wait until morning to get cleaned up. Well no matter, he'd go downstairs and see about getting some supper.

An hour later, his belly full, he took his second bottle of beer out onto the veranda. He was feeling sleepy and hoped the fresh breeze outside might wake him up a little. It was dark out here and he felt around for one of the chairs and sat down, enjoying the cool of the evening and surveying the town. It was still quiet but not the tense, itchy kind of quiet that usually precedes a fight. This was just quiet, peaceful even. He liked it.

"If you need something more lively, try the saloon."

The voice was soft, the words delivered in a laid-back drawl but Ben was startled and he stared around urgently for its owner. He'd thought he was alone out here and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust before he saw the silhouette of a man, sitting alone at the other end of the veranda. Ben was nervous and his words came out a little more hostile than he'd intended.

"Do I know you, friend?"

A match flared, a candle guttered on a table and abruptly he found himself looking at the raggedy-assed marshal. As before the man's eyes were calm, appraising and this time slightly curious.

"Most newcomers head straight for the saloon, or the whorehouse."

Ben nodded. "I prefer to take things more relaxed. I'm here for a few days and there's plenty of time for all that."

The marshal cocked an eyebrow.

"What's your business in Redemption?"

Ben figured it was best to answer the question honestly; as honestly as he could, anyway. "I've been on the road awhile and there's been a lot of talk about Redemption, about what went down here, so I figured…"

The marshal interrupted, sounding a little weary.

"I'm sure you heard a lot of lies, rumours and exaggerations, but the truth is we've got law here now so if you're looking to make trouble then you may as well…"

It was Ben's turn to interrupt. He was more than a little irked by this stranger's assumption that he was only in town to cause a nuisance.

"Listen mister, I'm heading down to Mexico and this pisshole town just happens to be on the way. I figured there might be some opportunities here, _honest_ opportunities, so I stopped by for a few days. If that's more than you feel _the law_ here can handle…"

To his surprise the man smiled.

"Relax, I didn't take you for a gunslinger."

"What did you take me for?"

"I'm not sure yet." The smile vanished as quickly as it had arrived. "What's your name?"

"Benedict Carter. Most folks call me Ben."

The marshal nodded and Ben watched the cogs clicking over in his mind.

"You won't find me on any wanted lists. I'm not an outlaw."

"I'm glad to hear it. There's too many names on that list already and half of them seem headed for Redemption It's enough to run a man ragged."

The side of his mouth pulled up in a wry, lop-sided grin and he took a sip of beer from the bottle in front of him. Ben found himself smiling back. He'd only known this man the briefest time but he thought, in a different universe, he could probably get to like him.

"You've got my name, it's only fair I get yours."

"Cort."

The name set a bell ringing deep in Ben's subconscious, like he might have heard it somewhere before, but he quickly dismissed it. He was sure he'd never clapped eyes on this man before.

"Is that it? Just Cort?"

"If you need more you can call me marshal."

Ben laughed. On impulse he hitched his chair back and approached Cort's table.

"Mind some company?"

Cort motioned to the empty chair beside him and Ben sat. He saw instantly why the marshal had chosen this spot; it afforded a clear view of the saloon a few doors down. He noticed an odd, multi-tiered structure in the road out front; a few sputtering candles were dotted haphazardly about on top of it and Ben frowned. It looked like some kind of shrine, though he didn't want to know what kind of deity they might be worshipping in a Godforsaken town like this one. His attention returned to the saloon; some wretched music was tinkling out of it but things seemed pretty peaceful. Cort seemed to read his mind.

"Things can start up quick. It pays to stay close."

Ben nodded. "You got a couple of deputies over there? Keeping an eye on things?"

Cort snorted. "Right now the only thing standing between this town and total carnage is me."

Surprised, Ben looked over at him. This close he could see how tired Cort looked; an ingrained sort of weariness which spoke of long days, longer nights and not too much in the way of sleep or relaxation. He noticed a few other things too. There was a long, livid scar across his left temple and, as Cort reached for his beer, Ben saw a faded bruise which covered most of his right hand and a thick band of scabs around his wrist. Ben had seen marks like that before and was willing to bet there was something similar on Cort's other wrist. This man had been shackled, quite recently, and for a long period of time. Maybe beaten or tortured too. Ben opened his mouth to ask a question but stopped himself just in time. That wasn't his way. Showing too much interest only got people showing interest right back.

"Not pretty is it?" Cort's voice was soft, almost inaudible, and it took Ben a moment to realise he'd followed his gaze to the scabs. "But it's done now."

The tone of his voice said otherwise and as Ben raised his head, curious again, the briefest flicker of sadness in Cort's eyes reinforced his suspicion. It occurred to Ben that whatever had happened to him, however long ago, he was still hurting bad. He was sure Cort hadn't intended him to figure that and, embarrassed, he changed the subject back to the saloon.

"How do you keep order here? I mean, if it's just you and all?"

"Reputation mostly." It was a calm statement of fact, with none of the usual bragging or bravado attached.

"You been in law enforcement long?"

The lop-sided grin again. "About three weeks. I had to learn real fast."

Ben knew it could take a lifetime to build a reputation fearsome enough to keep a town like Redemption at bay, but he also knew Cort wasn't bullshitting him.

"How'd you get that sort of reputation in three weeks, marshal?"

"I wasn't always a marshal."

Every time this man answered a question about ten more popped into Ben's head. He didn't understand Cort and that bothered him, since he'd once made a career out of reading men quickly and accurately. Cort was an enigma; a mess of contradictions and Ben was determined to find out more about him. A few quiet questions around town would get him what he needed, he'd once been good at that too. Right now he was thinking about turning in and was just about to bid Cort goodnight when the evening calm was shattered by the sounds of glass breaking and shouting. Inevitably the noise was coming from the saloon.

Cort was out of his chair like a bullet and running towards the building as three men piled into the street, cursing, punching and kicking each other. It looked ugly and Cort was heading right towards the centre of the brawl. Ben followed, wanting to get an eyeful of the fight and curious to see how the quietly spoken marshal with the badass reputation handled himself. It seemed like half the town also wanted to see; people were spilling out onto the balconies and verandas on both sides of the road, attracted by the noise, shouting and jeering like a mob at a bullfight. But not one of them seemed prepared to back up their marshal.

Cort was doing pretty well for himself though. He waded into the group of men, punching one of them hard in the face, knocking him down and elbowing a second man in the teeth, sending him reeling backwards. The third man was on his knees, hurt or winded, but as Cort leaned down to grab him he came up fast, a bottle in his hand, and smashed it into his forehead. The impact knocked Cort sideways and he stumbled and hit the deck, fetching up on his back in the dirt. In a split second the axis of the fight had changed completely.

The fighters regrouped swiftly and they all had their pistols drawn. They gathered around Cort, aiming directly at his chest, and the town went deathly quiet.


	4. Chapter Three

Cort couldn't see, and it seemed he'd gone deaf too. A moment before the air had been alive with shouts, screams and the immediate noise of the fight, now there was only pounding silence and ringing somewhere deep inside his left ear. He was disoriented, confused and it took him a while to figure out he was flat on his ass on the ground, and that it probably wasn't the best place to be right now. A voice drifted down from somewhere above him.

"Shit Jake, you wasn't supposed to kill him."

At least that meant his ears still worked.

Another voice, closer. "He ain't dead. Wake up, preacher."

Something slammed into Cort's ribs, forcing a grunt of pain out of him.

"You see? Now go get some water."

For a second he thought he'd dreamed the past three weeks and he was still in the middle of Herod's shooting contest, chained to the town fountain and at the mercy of every sadist who passed him by. But Cort knew this was no dream. It hurt too much to be a dream.

Something was running into his eyes, making them sting. It smelled like whisky and his brain finally made the connection. One of the men had clubbed him round the head with a bottle and he sure as hell hadn't seen it coming. It seemed like there was something he should be doing right now, he just couldn't quite remember what it was.

He was shocked back to reality by a torrent of cold water hitting him in the face. He spluttered and cursed, forced his eyes open and tried to make some sense of his situation. It didn't take long. The three men he'd been fighting only minutes ago were now best buddies again and they were standing over him, close together. Three guns were pointed his way.

This was it then, the moment of truth, the moment he'd known was coming ever since he took the marshal's job. Cort glanced beyond the men, seeking some way out of this and finding none. The balconies of the nearby buildings were undulating slightly, not completely in focus, and he could see they were thronged with people. So he was going to die in front of a crowd, for their entertainment and pleasure, and he knew damned well they weren't going to help him. After all, wasn't this pretty much the same mob who'd lined up to watch Herod's show?

But he wasn't going to die flat on his back like a whore. Cort managed to sit up but it was a struggle. His balance was shot and his head was pounding fit to bust.

"You want us to say a prayer for you, preacher?"

The persistent reference to his former calling bugged him more than the fact he was about to die.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a preacher."

The same voice again, goading him. "Then I guess God won't be providing any kind of miracle."

They laughed and he glared at them. Water was running into his eyes now, and they were stinging again. He scrubbed at them with the sleeve of his shirt, squinting at the man he took to be the leader, the one called Jake. He was leaning in closer, a look of mock concern on his face.

"Don't go bleeding to death before we get to shoot you, preacher."

Cort didn't understand, until he glanced at his sleeve and saw it streaked with blood. It seemed he'd been hurt worse than he'd figured, though it hardly mattered now. He was sick of being toyed with like this, it was like Foy and Ratsy all over again and he wondered if Foy was up there in the crowd, watching. The bastard would be getting a real kick out of this little scene, that was for sure.

"If you're going to kill me then quit talking and get on with it." Cort's head felt so heavy he just hung it down and watched blood and water dripping onto his pants.

"We ain't gonna shoot you down there. Get up and face us like a man."

He sighed. That meant having to try and stand. He watched as the gang holstered their weapons and took a few steps back, spreading out in a line. The sight was almost comical. They wanted him to get up just so they could gun him down again, just so they could pretend they weren't cowards. With his wits about him Cort could have taken all three of them easy. He remembered facing four men once; only one managed to even get his gun clear of its holster before he got hit.

But he couldn't do it now, not like this, though it seemed he had little choice in the matter. He struggled to his knees, hearing more laughter and jeering from his soon-to-be killers; it was quickly picked up by some of the jackals on the balconies.

Then there was somebody behind him; hands sliding beneath his armpits and hauling him upright, something soft pushed against the wound in his head, making him wince. A voice close to his ear:

"Keep it pressed tight, it'll stop the bleeding long enough to take these assholes out."

Cort recognised the voice. Ben Carter, the young fellow he'd been talking to on the hotel veranda. That conversation seemed like a lifetime ago now. He grunted his understanding and raised his left hand to keep the cloth pressed in place. Now at least he could see what he was doing. Ben's voice again, still behind him and still quiet.

"Go for the one on your left, I'll take the others."

Cort nodded, trying to comprehend the fact that somebody in this godforsaken town was actually prepared to help him. The gang seemed to be thinking along the same lines and Jake was looking at Ben suspiciously.

"If you think you got business joining this fight then help yourself. You can die right alongside the marshal."

"Just making it more even." There was contempt in Ben's voice. "Where's the glory in three of you killing a man who can't even see straight?"

"I don't see that's any of your business, unless you're his deputy or something?"

Ben shook his head. "Just passing through." He backed up towards the saloon but his eyes were on Cort and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Cort turned to face the line of men, his heart racing. Adrenalin pumped through his body and he felt like he was twenty years old again. This was just like the bad old days - the good old days - just him, his wits and his gun against ludicrous odds, nothing but his reputation and his life on the line. He used to do this kind of thing for fun; it used to make him feel alive, invincible, like he could look God right in the eye and laugh.

He dropped the bloody cloth in the dirt, drying his fingers on his pants. He only had a few seconds before the damned cut started leaking again but that's all he needed. He could take them, all three of them, and he wasn't about to let them make the first move either. They'd had their chance.

Cort drew, got off two shots clean on target before they'd even moved. The man on his left staggered backwards, a bullet between his eyes and the leader, Jake, fell to his knees with one through the heart. Cort swung towards his third opponent and realised, belatedly, that this man's gun wasn't only drawn and aimed, but he was also pulling the trigger. Cort fired anyway, he was off balance and knew the shot would go wide but another gun roared from off to his right and then the man was staggering sideways. Cort felt something sear across his right bicep a moment before the man tripped over Jake's body and crashed to the floor. eHe d He didn't move again.

There were a few seconds of absolute silence and Cort looked over at the saloon where Ben was holstering his Remington. Somebody in one of the balconies started a slow handclap and the sound got progressively louder as more spectators joined in. The whole of downtown was a cacophony of screams and whistles; people were shouting Cort's name like he was some kind of hero and it made him absolutely furious.

He emptied his gun into the eaves of the building where most of the noise was coming from. People ducked as bullets whistled over their heads and Cort was sorry he hadn't hit a few of them. Blood was running into his eye again but right now he didn't care and he knew they didn't either. He had something to say and his words boomed and echoed around the buildings.

"Am I just cheap entertainment to you people? Did you hire me as marshal only to watch me die, or is it still amusing to watch a priest with a gun? If you think God's on my side, makes me invincible then you're wrong and I won't be the object of this town's amusement. I stayed in Redemption because I thought you needed protecting from men like John Herod, thought there were people here decent enough to be worth the effort but I was wrong. There are plenty more Herods waiting to move in and that's all this pisshole town deserves."

He wanted to say more but he'd only be repeating himself so he spat on the ground then shouldered his way through a silent group gathered around the dead bodies. He needed to be alone and he grabbed a bottle of hooch from a fellow who looked ready to pass out anyway, then marched up to the other end of town, the quiet end. He threw himself onto the steps of the marshal's office and tried to collect his thoughts. He was cold and realised he had the shakes, maybe due to the head wound, but Cort knew it was more than that. Killing men, even men who were determined to kill him first, didn't rest easy on his conscience. There _had_ to be a better way to live than this and he'd tried so hard to do it, but it hadn't worked. It never worked. It seemed no matter what he did, how decent and moral he tried to be, there was always someone who thought violence was a better idea and, somehow, Cort kept getting dragged right back into it.

He wished there was a church or chapel in town. Right now he wanted to light candles and try to pray for the souls of the men he'd just killed, though he'd never have the audacity to pray for his own. That was a lost cause. Not for the first time since the dreadful night in Hermosillo Cort felt a great emptiness in his life. It was the space where faith used to be, would never be again. He usually filled that space up with alcohol.

He took a mouthful of whisky, vaguely aware that tipping the bottle hurt his arm, and wondered what he was going to do with himself now. The only thing he'd ever been really good at was shooting a gun, killing men, and he'd proved that again tonight. He could never again be any kind of spiritual leader, had no wish to be, but as marshal he'd imagined the people of Redemption as some kind of surrogate flock, done his best to help them, and this is what he got in return. Alone and bleeding while the town celebrated a great night's free sport and another door was slammed in his face. He cursed, raised the bottle and this time he couldn't ignore the pain. Belatedly he remembered getting shot. He glanced down at his arm, at all the extra blood on his shirt and cursed again. It would never wash out and he didn't fancy having to beg for a replacement.

"You should get fixed up, buddy."

He looked up, startled. He hadn't heard anybody approaching but since he was still mostly deaf in his left ear it wasn't surprising. Ben Carter was ambling towards him, hands stuck nonchalantly in his pockets. Ben was an agreeable looking fellow; tall and sturdily-built with an easy smile and a shock of muddy-blonde hair which had been further lightened by the sun. Cort put them at roughly the same age though Ben's clothes, boots and gun belt were of much better quality than his own and the Remington pistol was well cared for. He was plenty good at shooting it and Cort was glad to see him for a number of reasons.

Ben sat beside him and sniffed disapprovingly.

"You're bleeding like a stuck pig."

"It's nothing serious."

"Booze don't replace blood, marshal. The doc says get your sorry ass to his office right away."

"He can wait a while. You want some of this?"

Cort offered the whisky bottle and Ben accepted it. Cort still didn't know what to make of this man, but actions spoke much clearer than words ever could.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you. You saved my life back there

Ben grimaced. "I've stayed in some mean places, but this one beats 'em all." He sounded genuinely perplexed. "What kind of town stands around and watches its marshal die in a fixed fight? You know some of those drunk bastards were taking bets? They were all betting against you."

That nugget of information stung Cort to the core and he tried not to let on. "Doesn't surprise me."

"Maybe you should have stuck to preaching?"

Cort shook his head, watching droplets of blood splash out onto the sand. "I'm done with God, and he's sure as hell done with me."

"What happened?"

Cort grabbed the bottle and took a couple of gulps. "John Herod happened. Seems like his was always the most powerful church anyway…"

"Are you going to quit?"

"I don't know, Ben. I can't keep law in this town, not on my own, and it's pretty clear how little people value my life."

"I don't think everybody feels that way. There was a whole bunch of them at the doc's office worrying about you, but you could sure use some help around here, buddy."

Cort shot him a smile. "The job's yours if you want it."

Ben shook his head. "I'm just passing through."


	5. Chapter Four

Cort started awake, his heart racing. Bleary and disoriented it took him several moments to realise he'd been dreaming again. Dreaming and sleeping was all he'd been doing recently, and he was still too tired to move. His head was aching like a bastard and he poked at the bandage wrapped around it, wincing as his fingers made contact with the sore lump beneath. Even raising his arm hurt, there was a bandage there too, so he let it flop back onto the bed and cursed his own weakness.

The door creaked open and Doc Wallace stuck his head into the room.

"You okay, son? I thought I heard you call out."

Cort eyed him warily. "Guess I was dreaming again."

"How you feeling, Cort?"

"My head's hurting fit to bust. You got anything for that ?"

The doctor moved in close to the bed and squinted at him appraisingly. "That's one hell of a shiner you got there, you're damned lucky that bottle didn't crack your skull open. I got some chloroform, that'll knock you out for a while."

Cort shook his head and instantly wished he hadn't. "I was thinking of something more sociable, like maybe whisky."

The expression of distaste on the old man's face warned him exactly what was coming.

"If you're thirsty there's water on the table right beside you. You drunk enough whisky last night to last a lifetime, and that's mostly why your head's hurting. Now do you need anything _sensible_ while I'm here? Food or a piss?"

"What I need is to get out of here."

That generated some emphatic head shaking.

"I'll decide when you leave. Right now I need you close so I can watch you."

Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him and Cort sighed. He knew the old man was right, he was in no state to look after himself right now, and last night he'd been in no condition to argue when the doctor decided he should stay a while. Cort's eyes flitted around the observation room, no more than a boxroom really. The walls were painted terracotta orange, not much different to the colours of the desert outside the window, and all it contained was a narrow bed, a rickety table and a crucifix hanging on the wall above him. Cort considered how many times this bunk might have served as somebody's deathbed and the thought made him squirm.

There wasn't much in here to occupy a patient except thoughts of getting well and getting the hell out. Maybe that was the point of it. Cort wished he knew what time it was but his watch was in the pocket of his pants, and his pants had disappeared along with the rest of his clothes. He wondered if the doctor planned on releasing him back into Redemption wearing only his drawers and glanced over at the window. It was getting dark outside which meant he'd been laying around here on his ass for the whole day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the luxury of doing that.

Ben Carter had pretty much carried him down here last night. Cort had suspected whatever Wallace was going to do would hurt even worse than getting clubbed and shot, so he'd got drunk and reckoned without the effects of blood loss and shock. When he'd tried to stand up he'd fallen over and by the time Ben got him here he was pretty much unconscious. He didn't remember his wounds being stitched up and dressed, and now he reckoned it might have been smarter to have endured the pain of the needle. That way he wouldn't be struggling with the hangover from hell.

When he opened his eyes again it was full dark and he blinked around, surprised. Not because he'd fallen asleep without realising, he'd been doing that a lot lately, but because he didn't recall any dreams. He was cold and quickly realised that the bedclothes were gone. He felt around in the pitch black but they weren't on the bed so he rolled gingerly onto his side and began groping on the floor. His hand banged against something, there was a crash and then the sound of glass breaking.

He cursed and heard the scrape of a chair in the next room. The doctor wasn't joking about staying close and a moment later he was standing in the doorway with a lamp.

"What did you do?"

Cort didn't really need to explain. The bedside table was over on its side and there was glass and water all over the floor. "I was trying to find the blankets."

"Why didn't you holler? I'm right next door."

He turned the table upright and set the lamp down on top of it.

"Guess I shouldn't have left you in the dark like that, but I figured you'd be mostly sleeping."

He located the blankets, laying in a heap at the foot of the bed, rolled Cort onto his back and spread them over him.

"You must've kicked 'em off, you squirm something wicked when you're asleep. Those dreams must be pretty hot"

Cort smiled. "They're hot as hell."

The mention of his dreams made him realise he might get a few answers here. He waded right on in.

"You ever hear of a man called Henry Usher?"

"That preacher feller? Everybody's heard of him."

Cort frowned. "What do you know about him?"

The doctor scratched at his beard, considering. "Well, let me see…"

He shuffled out of the room and Cort felt yesterday evening's frustration return. He'd been down this route with Foy in the Bordello and, right after, Horace the barkeep over at The Bank saloon. He'd got no satisfying information from either. Everybody knew Henry User was some kind of big shot preacher with a veritable army of devout soldiers; a man who worked out of Tucson, delivered on his promises and travelled a lot, but no more than that. He'd hoped an educated fellow like Wallace might be able to shed a little more light but now he wasn't so sure.

The doctor returned with a broom and a mop and began cleaning up the mess on the floor. He wasn't talking and the silence stretched out. Cort suspected he'd forgotten the original question.

"Henry Usher?"

Abruptly the old fellow piped up, as though he hadn't been asked the same thing only minutes before.

"I been to one of his meetings in Bisbee and it was an illuminating night. That feller knows how to preach the Bible without boring people to sleep or scaring 'em senseless with talk of fire and damnation. You should've seen all the donations afterwards, I never seen so much silver in my life and not a single button in that plate. He'd be a rich man if he didn't pile it all back into that ministry of his. He gets into godforsaken places and builds churches for people who've only known bloodshed and violence, turns them places right around. When a town gets religion it cleans itself up and clean towns bring decent folks and business. Even the railroad sometimes. Redemption could sure use a man like Henry Usher."

Whatever Cort had expected, it wasn't this. Henry Usher had unsettled him for so long he'd started to think of him as some kind of a demon. There was absolutely no basis for it other than his own mind, twisted by guilt and alcohol, playing tricks on him. After all, hadn't his only real experience of Henry Usher been one of kindness and compassion?

"Why are you interested in him, Cort? Thinking of asking for a job?"

Cort frowned. "He found me in the desert, pretty much stopped Foy and Ratsy killing me. Yesterday Foy said how he was interested in me and I'm trying to figure out why."

The doctor grinned. "Maybe he was gonna offer _you_ a job?"

Cort shook his head, relieved that it didn't hurt so bad this time.

"All I'm good for is taking lives, not making them better."

"Don't be hard on yourself, son. You did what needed doing last night. You can't expect to be town marshal without shooting a gun now and then."

Cort pulled himself up in bed and leaned against the headboard, eying the doctor, considering what he'd said. Did he even want to be marshal anymore? Until now he'd not been alert enough to give it any serious consideration and last night he'd been too angry to think straight. Wallace was watching him with a quizzical expression.

"You've got some figuring to do, there's a world of difference between the church and the law."

"I don't know about that , it always comes down to belief doesn't it? I believed people in Redemption appreciated what I was trying to do. I've never felt especially welcome, but I thought I was making some kind of difference to their lives and I thought that was enough. Last night it all changed. How many people do you reckon were watching that gunfight? A hundred? More than a hundred? All they cared about was watching me die and you know what the worse thing was…"

He was too choked up to finish the sentence. Tears were pricking at his eyes and he hung his head down so the doctor couldn't see. A moment later the bunk shifted slightly as the old fellow sat his meagre ass down. A hand on his wrist, squeezing gently and offering support made the tears come freely and he felt hot splashes on his bare chest.

"You weep if you need to. I figure an ex-preacher who's still wearing a cross is gonna hurt bad when he has to take life."

Cort glanced down at the simple cross around his neck. He honestly didn't know why he still had it on; it wasn't like it meant much anymore. It wore it mostly out of habit.

"It's not just the killing, Doc. Ben told me there was folks taking bets on that fight and they were all betting against me."

He managed a weak smile. "I guess everybody gets to be a Judas when the odds are right."

That got an unexpected reaction. The old fellow tightened his grip on Cort's wrist and learned forward, almost skewering him with the ferocity of his gaze.

"You listen to me and listen good. Most decent folks were in their homes when that gunfight started up. The ones taking bets came from the bars and whorehouses and they aren't worth jack shit. If it's of any interest to you, twenty of those sons of bitches left town today of their own accord and a bunch of townsfolk got together and ran out more of 'em. Folks have been banging on my door all day long, asking after you and some of 'em brought gifts. The women took your clothes away to wash and Charlie Barton from the liquor store wrote a letter to the US Marshal's office, demanding they send you some backup and damned quick. We all signed it."

Cort stared at him, stunned. The doctor smiled.

"People here appreciate you, though they might not show it so good. They've been working up at that marshal's office all day. I think they've gotten the glass in now."

"Some folks might call that closing the stable door when the horse has bolted."

The doctor shrugged. "Maybe. You've got some thinking to do but it'd be a pity if you decided to leave."

He stood up and Cort heard his knees crack.

"I can bring some stew if you like? Seems like you're feeling better now?"

"Stew sounds good."

The doctor nodded and was just leaving the room as a banging started up somewhere outside. Cort's reaction was instinctive, he jumped out of bed and looked around for his gun. Of course it was gone, along with the rest of his stuff.

"Where's my fucking gun?"

Wallace was staring like he'd gone mad.

"Calm down, it's someone paying a visit."

"At this hour?"

"What hour? It's barely nine o'clock."

It felt much later and Cort felt stupid for over-reacting. He sat on the edge of the bed and his face burned.

"Seems I'm a little twitchy."

"I heard that, son."

The doctor left the room. He was gone a while and Cort started to feel tired again. He lay on the bunk and pulled the blankets close, wondering if he should blow out the flame on the lamp. Just as he was beginning to doze off he heard footsteps and then Wallace's was back in the room.

"You need to wake up, son." He sounded terse and Cort opened his eyes.

"What's up?"

The old man's face was inscrutable. "You remember that feller we were talking about earlier?"

"What feller?"

"That Henry Usher feller. He's sitting in my parlour, drinking my best bourbon and he wants to talk to you."


	6. Chapter Five

Doc Wallace scratched at his beard, a habit brought on by concern, and he was surely worried about the man in front of him. His young patient had appeared to be dozing but, when he'd heard how Henry Usher was waiting, he'd jumped out of bed like he'd been stung; a wild, scared look in his eyes like the devil himself had come to visit. The doctor had noticed that look a lot lately; something was tormenting Cort bad enough to have him writhing and moaning when he was asleep, cagey and withdrawn when awake. Sometimes he'd just stare with a blankness that was downright unsettling and the doctor wanted to assist but didn't feel equipped for the job. Sure he could patch up Cort's body, he'd been doing that a lot lately too, but whatever was hurting his soul needed a more specialised kind of help.

Cort was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands and unmoving. He'd been like that for several minutes and the doctor's mind turned to the visitor in his parlour, who might be getting impatient.

"If you don't feel up to it I can tell Mister Usher to come back?"

Cort twitched but didn't raise his head. The doctor wondered, not for the first time, what it was with Henry Usher that made his patient so nervous. He'd just spent twenty minutes talking with the man and it seemed there was nothing to fear. Usher was courteous and polite; he'd offered five dollars for the bourbon he was drinking and another ten for the doctor to keep his mouth shut about tonight's visit. He'd invited him along to his next church meeting and asked a lot of questions about Cort. The doctor hadn't seen any harm in answering them, Usher could easily get the answers he wanted in the saloons or hotels, though this way they were mostly free from embellishment. He'd made enquiries about Cort's injuries and prognosis for recovery and the doctor told him straight, but nothing Usher had said or done had given any cause for suspicion or alarm. It seemed like he had only Cort's best interests at heart, though Cort seemed to think different, and he still wasn't moving.

"Look at me, son, so I know you're listening at least."

Cort finally raised his head. His eyes were red, his hair was sticking up all over the place, and there was that blank-eyed stare again, like his mind was in another place entirely. A dark and bleak place for sure.

"Your body's strong as an ox, Cort. You heal quick and you'll be out of here tomorrow, but I figure there's some other part of you that's broke and hurting and no amount of medicine's going to fix that. You hear what I'm saying, don't you?"

Cort just kept staring.

"Son, there's a man sitting right here in my house and he's a man of God. Whatever's bugging you, I reckon he can help."

Cort shook his head. "He'll only tell me what I already know. My soul's cursed, damned to purgatory and nobody can help."

"Well now you're just talking shit, son. I ain't no preacher but even I know God forgives folks who sin, just so long as they realise they've done wrong. Isn't that what's eating you up right now? You want me to bring Mister Usher in here to see you?"

Finally he got a reaction. Cort pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, glaring.

"Hell no. I don't want him seeing me in a sickbed; it was bad enough that night in the desert."

"You'll talk to him then?"

Cort nodded wearily. "Do I have a choice?"


	7. Chapter Six

Cort's legs were wobbling as he headed towards the parlour. He tried to blame it on lack of food, blood loss and injury but deep down he know the real reason. He was scared, and he felt ridiculous for being rattled over something like this. Yesterday he'd stood before three gunfighters intent on killing him and whatever was going through his head then, fear hadn't been part of it. But the idea of coming face to face with a representative of the church was shaking him to pieces.

He approached the parlour door and stopped, rubbing at his face, trying to pull himself together. He clutched the blanket tightly around his shoulders, embarrassed at having to face Henry Usher without the benefit of proper dress but his clothes were gone, nothing in the lean old doctor's wardrobe would fit, and he'd had to make do with this.

He felt Wallace's hand between his shoulders, propelling him closer to the door.

"Just get it over with. Holler if you need me and don't go drinking my liquor while you're in there. It won't help you."

Cort opened the door cautiously, his heart racing. The room was acrid with odours of parchment, mothballs, dust and chemicals and he wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze. The walls of the parlour were lined with books and there were a couple of glass cabinets containing phials and bottles of fluids. It was too warm, a fire blazing in the grate, and a couple of refined old armchairs were pulled up close to it. Cort could see a man's form in one of them, stretched out casually, a glass of liquor in his hand. He wasn't sure if Usher knew he was here, wasn't sure what to say, so he took a step into the room, closed the door quietly and cleared his throat.

Usher stirred and got lithely to his feet. He was smiling.

"Do forgive my manners, I got comfortable there with the fire and bourbon."

He walked forwards, hand outstretched, still smiling and Cort took in his finely tailored three-piece suit, fancy shirt, thick silver watch chain and expensive boots. He automatically dropped his eyes to Usher's waist, seeking the gun belt but of course Usher was unarmed and he felt a little guilty for even looking. Then the man from his dreams was standing before him, shaking his hand with a warm, firm grip. Usher was a big man; taller than Cort by a couple of inches, heavier by at least forty pounds and looked to be in his early fifties, his age only belied by silver streaks in his finely coiffed hair. He exuded style and confidence and the smile he offered seemed genuinely friendly. It reached all the way to his eyes, the same ones Cort remembered from the desert, but these eyes were warm and concerned.

"It seems you're not much better off than last time we met."

Cort pulled at the blanket, wishing it was bigger. "At least I had clothes then."

The smile didn't falter. "Sit by the fire, son, I don't want you catching cold."

Usher strode to a dresser in the corner of the room and Cort sat in the other armchair, watching him pour whisky into a glass. His heart had stopped pounding so hard and he was reassured by the warmth and sincerity of Usher's greeting, but he couldn't let his guard down. He still didn't know what this man wanted from him.

The glass of whisky was pushed into his hand. "The doctor's worried about you."

Cort smiled. "He's worried about me drinking his booze."

He took a gulp of the liquor. It was good bourbon and he relished the slow burn as it slid down his throat and into his belly. Usher sat down and now he looked serious.

"What happened to you?"

Cort frowned, unsure of the question.

"If you mean John Herod and all, I…"

Usher interrupted. "I know what happened after they dragged you here and I know what Herod made you do. I'm asking what happened to your faith, Cort. When I met you in the desert you looked half dead but I was pretty sure I was looking at a man of God. Now, barely a month later, I find you trying to keep law in a town which doesn't know its meaning, getting drunk every night and dreaming about purgatory."

Cort was startled. "How do you know that?"

Usher shrugged. "Like I said, the doc's worried about you and you didn't answer my question."

Cort eyed him cautiously. "Any reason why I should?"

Usher's smile was back. "None at all, though it might help you some."

Cort thought about it for a moment, not sure he should say anything, but this man had pretty much saved his life and he owed him something for that at least.

"You'll probably think I'm making excuses but the truth is John Herod took my faith and a lot more besides. My soul always belonged to him more than God, and the bastard knew it. Renouncing violence was easy enough in Hermosillo, but he knew the minute he put a gun in my hand and stuck me in a gunfight I'd pull the trigger." He shrugged. "I killed a man for the first time in three years and then I was done with preaching. I was never much good at it anyway."

Usher shook his head. "That's wrong."

"I know. I should have just let the injun shoot me, but I was too much of a coward. That gun was stronger than my faith and I wasn't convinced I was going to heaven so I killed him before he killed me. That day I turned my back on God, and God turned his on me."

Usher was still shaking his head but there was a smile tugging at his lips. Cort wondered, with irritation, what was so damned amusing about the sorry affair.

"I got to Hermosillo the day after Herod's men came for you and I spent some time talking to your congregation. They sure were sad you'd gone and most of the women were crying, thinking you were dead. Some of them were real pretty too. They loved you, Cort, kept saying how much they enjoyed your services, how you brought the Bible alive, how you always knew the right thing to say or do to help them, how much better their lives were. How do you figure that to be lousy preaching, boy?"

Listening to Usher talk of his congregation was a wrench, and Cort could picture those well-remembered faces, twisted with grief and concern. But surely not for him, he didn't deserve the respect or compassion of decent, hardworking people like those.

"Everything I did in Hermosillo was a lie. I deceived that town and I sure as hell deceived myself. I'm a killer, pure and simple, and no amount of remorse or confessing to a priest will change that. I know where I'm headed Mister Usher and why don't you tell me why you've been following me?"

Usher's face darkened. "What's wrong with you? You of all people should know how God grants forgiveness to those who truly seek it. The Bible isn't a lawbook son, it's a guide to morality and if you've taken life and know it's wrong, God will forgive. But if you don't have the courage to even ask that favour then you may as well swill around in torment for all eternity. You'll only have yourself to blame."

He got up, snagged the bottle of bourbon from the dresser and refilled Cort's glass.

"I'll be glad to hear your confession, any time you like."

Cort watched the whisky flow. He didn't recall drinking the first glass but was grateful for a second. It felt like he was on pretty thin ice.

"I'll think about it, and you haven't answered _my_ question."

Henry Usher was the picture of tranquillity as he topped up his own glass, sat down and folded his hands across his belly. He levelled a peaceable gaze in Cort's direction.

"I'd been hearing stories about you for years, back when you rode with Herod and his gang. I confess I didn't care for what I was hearing, but it was mostly _you _people were talking about, not your boss, and that made me wonder. I dug a little deeper, found out more about the kid with the fast gun who followed Herod like a dog but carried out his business with something you might call compassion. Seemed you wasn't so keen on hurting and killing innocent folks for sport, like the rest of them, seemed you stopped a lot of ugliness when you could, and people remembered that."

Cort shrugged. "It makes no difference if I had a conscience. The fact is I did everything Herod asked of me, and I killed more men than I can remember."

"I'm not saying it was right, but I'm not here to pass judgement. When I stopped hearing your name in those stories I got curious again, but nobody knew what happened or where you'd gone. Then, three weeks ago I got word you'd set up some kind of mission in Hermosillo, that you'd found God, and my heart filled with joy. I figured I'd pay you a visit but I was too late and by the time I'd caught up you were John Herod's property again. I sure wasn't going to mess with him."

Cort nodded. It explained why Usher had simply left him in the desert that night.

"I want to thank you for what you did back there. You saved my life, though it might have been kinder to let me die."

"I figured you _were_ dead, Cort. I figured as soon as you got to Redemption John Herod was going to kill you. I can't tell you how happy I was to discover you survived all that unpleasantness."

Cort was beginning to feel the effects of the bourbon and hoped the next part of this conversation would be over with quickly. The narrow bunk in the little orange room was starting to seem very pleasant indeed.

"Are you going to tell me what you want now, Mister Usher?"

"I heard you were smart, son, haven't you figured it out for yourself? Do you think I followed you halfway across the territory for my health? I believe a man with your talents deserves more than a crappy marshal's job in a hole like Redemption."

Cort frowned, unsure where Usher was going with this. Usher shot him another warm, embracing smile.

"I'm offering you employment, son."

Of all the possible motives Henry Usher might have had for hunting him down, this one had never crossed Cort's mind. If he hadn't just heard the words come out of Usher's mouth he would never have believed it possible.

"You're a man of God, a _real_ man of God, and I know something about your church and the good it does in this territory. What possible use would I be to you?"

Usher sipped his bourbon, an appraising look in his eye. Cort didn't like being studied like this and picked at the blanket nervously.

"I admit I was going to ask you to join us as a priest. My ministry is expanding so fast I can barely keep track and I need good, charismatic preachers in my churches. Men who can make religion mean more to folks than being bored for two hours on a Sunday morning. It seems you're not ready for that yet but since you've taken a liking to the law, perhaps a job in security might suit you?"

It might have been the whisky scrambling his brain, but Cort had no idea what Henry Usher was talking about. He'd suspected some kind of religious offer was coming, and been ready to turn it down, but how did security fit into the church?

"I'm not following."

"It's quite simple. My churches make money from donations. We use them to build more churches and bring the word of God to towns which need us most. Towns like Redemption for example. That money piles up fast and needs protecting until we can get it to our banks in Tombstone and Tucson. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about the number of outlaws and gangs on the roads these days."

Cort smiled. "You want me to kill in the name of the church?"

"No, son, I want you to be a deterrent." Usher spoke slowly, like he was explaining something to a small child. "You might not realise but you've still got a fearsome reputation. I reckon most outlaws would think twice about robbing coaches carrying church money if they knew John Herod's old deputy was heading up the guard."

Cort's head was starting to throb. The doctor was right, whisky was no good for him right now and Henry Usher, for all his charm, intelligence and conviction seemed to be missing a fundamental point. He tried to focus his thoughts and explain coherently.

"That reputation you mention will draw out every desperado in the territory. Even if they don't care about the money, which is unlikely, they'll want to pit their gun against mine so see who's fastest. If I was guarding your money you'd wind up with more interest in it than you could handle. If you want proper security I suggest you go visit the Pinkertons.

Usher didn't seem to be giving up and his persistence was tiring.

"You're an easy target here, Cort. Redemption's a town in chaos and you're killing yourself trying to control something one man should never be expected to. They're paying you exactly how much to put your life on the line every day?"

Cort smiled. "I reckon you know how much."

Usher nodded. "I'm offering you a job where you'll get to own more than one set of clothes. You shouldn't have to sit around in a blanket whenever your shirt gets soiled."

Cort felt his face redden. "I'll get it back tomorrow."

Usher pressed on. "Church money will always be a target but my ministry doesn't make itself vulnerable and outlaws are starting to get that message. I'd appreciate it if you'd at least think on it a while, we haven't even discussed pay yet."

Cort was pretty sure Henry Usher had made another fundamental miscalculation.

"Money's not important to me anymore. I lived for three years in Hermosillo on the grace of God and the hospitality of the people. Right now I'm living on the charity of the folks in Redemption and as long as they want me enough to keep me fed and give me a bed, I'll do whatever they need."

Usher laughed, but there wasn't much humour in it. "I saw something of Redemption's charity last night. The whole town turned out to watch you die in a gunfight and took bets on the outcome. That's a fine, Godly charity and no mistake."

Cort only wanted to lie down and sleep. Usher didn't seem to be getting his message so he tried to make it as clear as possible.

"Mister Usher, tonight you've made me realise I might still have business with God, but it's something I need to work out with him directly. I don't think the church is going to figure in my life for a while so I'd like to thank you for your kind and generous offer, but I feel Redemption's the best place for me right now."

Usher nodded and stood up. Cort noticed how all the warmth had gone from his eyes. Now he was faced with the penetrating stare remembered from his dreams.

"Something might happen to change your mind, Cort, and I'll pray for a miracle. I'll be around for the next day or so, if you need me."

He headed towards the door, slapping something down on the arm of Cort's chair as he passed.

"Courtesy of the church. Buy yourself a new blanket, son."

The door closed and Cort glanced down at what he'd left. It was a twenty dollar bill.

Henry Usher moved quietly along the main street of Redemption, avoiding the lights and knots of drunken revellers spilling from the saloons and hotels. The town didn't know he was here or that his men were camped a mile outside the southern perimeter. He needed to get back to them quickly and adjust their orders.

He was puzzled and disappointed. He'd gone to Wallace's house believing that recruiting Cort would be easy, convinced the outlaw-turned-priest-turned-marshal would follow him willingly. He'd been certain that a man living on a moral knife-edge would do anything to redeem himself and not once considered the possibility of rejection. He couldn't understand Cort's motives, or why somebody who desperately needed the forgiveness of God would choose the law over the church.

Henry Usher wasn't used to being denied and he didn't like it, but he tried to remember how the Lord placed every obstacle across his path for a good reason. He needed to accept this new challenge and find a way to show the marshal how the law of the church was stronger than the law of the land.

He'd got lucky last night. The three drunken bums who'd tried to outgun Cort had been cheap, stupid, dispensable labour, but next time his own men would be involved and he wasn't taking any chances with their lives.

He lengthened his stride as he cleared the last of Redemption's buildings and covered the mile or so back to his camp quickly. By the time he spotted the campfire, his men hunched around it, a plan was clear in his mind.

His deputy, Jack Bellows, saw him approach and came striding over. He looked relieved.

"You okay, sir? You been gone a long time."

"I'm fine. We just got a change of plan is all."

"Anything I can help with, Mister Usher?"

"What's the word on Ben Carter?"

"We got eyes on him. Last I heard he was having fun in the bordello."

Usher nodded. "Tell those boys to stay alert; I don't want that bastard sneaking off in the night. We'll take him tomorrow at sundown."


	8. Chapter Seven

Ben Carter tossed his cards onto the table; his third losing hand in a row and he figured he should quit before he got drunk and was a few dollars up. He'd been playing stud in the saloon for a few hours with some of the townsfolk, store keepers mainly, but now he was hungry and his luck had deserted him completely. He scooped up his meagre winnings.

"Deal me out fellas, I'm done for today."

They tried to coerce him into playing another hand and he was almost tempted. He liked the company of these people: decent, honest, hardworking men all of them, but he wasn't a brilliant stud player, not in a clean game, and he didn't have enough money left to waste on gambling.

He grinned at them. "Maybe tomorrow. Right now I've hardly got enough cash to eat."

Charlie Barton from the liquor was smiling.

"Take that deputy's job and you'll have a little more to spend on fun!"

The other men nodded their agreement and Ben marvelled at their persistence. His act of charity in saving their marshal's life seemed to have backfired somewhat. Two nights ago he'd been a stranger in town, wanting only to remain anonymous and move on quickly. But yesterday and today he'd been treated like some kind of hero. Everybody knew who he was, he'd been plied with complementary booze and girls in the bordello, and they'd all gotten it into their heads that he needed to stay in Redemption and help keep the law.

He'd thought about it too. Ben was tired of running, weary of a life that comprised nothing but long miles, fear and loneliness. Life on the road was hard, his money was nearly gone and he had precious few skills that would lend themselves to regular, honest employment. What if he did stay on here? He was good enough with his gun to keep order and when he talked people tended to listen. He'd have no problems working with Cort either. He liked the young marshal, admired his skill with a sidearm, respected his courage and tenacity and couldn't help but worry about what was going on inside his head. He wasn't alone in that either. Many people in town seemed to feel the same way but nobody talked to Cort much and he didn't appear to have any close friends. Ben reckoned he had a pretty good idea why that might be. People were feeling guilty.

Cort hadn't made much sense on the steps of the marshal's office two nights ago. He hadn't seemed aware how much he was bleeding, but was guzzling whisky regardless. Ben had tried his best to follow the rambling, tortured dialogue but Cort was only really coherent up to the point where he'd offered up the Deputy's job. He'd got drunk real quick and Ben had pretty much carried him to the doctor's house, getting blood over his own clothes in the process, and Wallace had asked him to stick around and help out. What he'd really meant was help restrain Cort should it become necessary, though he'd been passed out by the time they'd lifted him up onto the bench in the surgery and got his shirt off. The cut on his head wasn't deep; all the blood made it look worse than it really was, and the wound on his arm wasn't serious either since the bullet had only winged him. Cort moaned a couple of times as the doctor stitched him up, but he'd done a pretty good job of anaesthetising himself and he didn't move.

It wasn't the recent injuries that bothered Ben so much as the number of nearly-healed bruises, lesions and weals that covered the rest of Cort's body. He noticed three much older scars which he recognised as bullet wounds; Cort had been pretty badly shot up at some time, but the shackle marks on his wrists were evidence of recent and far more insidious violence.

"What happened to him Doc?"

The old fellow looked up from his needlework, surprised. "You were there weren't you?"

"I mean these other marks, how'd he get them?"

The doctor gazed at him quizzically. "You're new in town so I guess you haven't heard, but most of this was John Herod's work."

Doc Wallace rattled off the story of how Cort had ridden with Herod's gang, left to pursue a better life then been dragged to Redemption and forced into a shooting contest.

"They beat him bad, near enough broke his hand, kept him chained up for days… Hell, they even tried to hang him in the saloon one night!"

Ben's mouth dropped open.

"Some folks in this town acted like he was only there for sport. They treated him worse than a dog and tormented him something wicked. Man of the church too, they should be ashamed."

"Nobody tried to help him?"

The doctor shook his head. "They'd only have gotten shot by Herod's guards."

"And he stayed on as marshal?" Ben was having trouble comprehending it. Why would Cort put his life on the line for a town which treated him like shit and continued to do so? The doctor was watching him, reading his thoughts.

"I don't know why he's still here, son; Redemption doesn't deserve somebody like Cort. But he's a decent young fellow, he's got a kind heart and I guess he sees the good in people. Ratsy and Foy burned his mission in Hermosillo so he doesn't have too many places to go."

Nowhere to go. Ben knew the feeling well and right now, standing on the steps of the saloon and watching the sun drop lower in the sky, he wished he didn't have to leave so soon. Cort might be staying because, for better or worse, Redemption was the closest thing he had to a home, but Ben didn't even have that. He'd had no home for six months and, unless he changed his lifestyle soon, he'd never have one again. He gazed around at the town, a lot quieter since so many undesirables had left or been run out, and wondered how it would feel to be going home to a wife and family right now, rather than a solitary supper and a lonely bed at the hotel. He reckoned it would feel pretty good.

As he was crossing the street he saw Cort coming out of the doctor's house and he smiled and waved, getting a similar greeting in return. He was glad to see Cort. He'd tried to visit a couple of times over the past two days but the doctor was adamant that nobody was to disturb his patient. One of the reasons he'd stuck around in Redemption was because it didn't feel right to leave without saying goodbye to the marshal. They arrived outside the hotel at the same time. Cort stuck out his hand and shook Ben's warmly.

"I thought you might have sneaked off while I was in solitary confinement."

Ben grinned. "I couldn't save a man's life then leave before he bought me a drink."

Cort laughed. "I'll get us some beers."

Ben followed him up the steps and took a seat on the porch as Cort went inside. He looked better for his two-day recuperation at the doctor's, though he had a bandage around his head and he'd arranged his hair in a lousy attempt to conceal it. He was wearing the same clothes as when Ben first met him, but they were clean, pressed and there was a new patch on the arm of his shirt where the bullet had torn the fabric. There were no blood stains at all and Ben considered the amount of work somebody had put into that particular cleaning task from hell.

Cort came out with two bottles of beer and sat down, running a hand through his damp hair. "Sure felt good to get all that blood out."

Ben sensed a change in Cort and it wasn't anything physical, though he looked less tired now.

"How are you feeling marshal?"

Cort smiled and his eyes were almost gleaming. "This morning I prayed for the first time in weeks and I think God might even have listened."

Ben wasn't religious, he'd seen enough of how the church worked to put him off for life, but he knew this was important to Cort.

"You're a good man. God would be stupid not to see it. You think you might go back to preaching?"

Cort took a gulp of beer. "Me and God have got some catching up to do. I figure I'm more use here right now."

"They've pretty much got the marshal's office ready."

"So I hear."

Ben had been up there himself today. He wasn't sure why but was curious to see the place in daylight. The outside was finished, the glass in place and inside they were halfway through getting up some bars for a cell. It was light and big with plenty of living space alongside the working space. Cort would be comfortable there; he'd have a home…

"You thought any more on that offer, Ben?"

The question took Ben by surprise. He was amazed Cort even remembered asking him. He didn't want to admit that it was pretty much the only thing he'd been thinking about recently.

"If I took a job here I'd bring more trouble on Redemption that it could handle."

"Redemption's used to trouble. I never figured this for an easy ride."

Ben nodded, considering. Cort's courage impressed him. The man knew he was a target, knew his reputation as a gunslinger would always attract the wrong kind of people, but he stayed here anyway. Ben's own situation wasn't much different, but would he honestly have the guts to stay in one place, wait for the devil to arrive, and fight him when he did?

"Whatever you're running from Ben, it's not smart to just keep going. There comes a time in every man's life where he has to take stock of his situation and try to make changes."

"Who says I'm running?"

Cort smiled. "You learn to read the signs. I spent enough time running to know."

"I heard about that. I thought your name sounded familiar first time we met. Never reckoned you to be _Cort The Killer_ though."

Cort flinched, like he'd been slapped in the face. "Don't call me that. It was a long time ago."

Ben felt a pang of guilt. He didn't like to see Cort hurting; the poor bastard had been through enough without adding to his burden.

"Suppose I stay here, suppose decide to work with you, what makes you think I'd be any good at law keeping?"

Cort looked at him, appraising. "You've got a sense of fairness, Ben; that goes a long way. You've got courage, you can handle a gun and you're smart. Only four weeks ago I was preaching the word of God to a small town in Mexico and if I can make the adjustment then I figure anybody can. Besides, it'd be nice to have somebody in town I can talk to."

Ben smiled. "Like a friend?"

Cort just gave him the lop-sided grin then cursed as he realised his bottle was empty. He stood up.

"You want another?"

Ben nodded and Cort headed back inside. Ben watched him go. He reckoned a friend like Cort might be okay. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd called anybody friend and actually meant it…

He glanced up and down the street , mentally taking note of the early evening activity. He'd learned this from Cort, only two days ago. Part of him was already switched on to law keeping and he wasn't comfortable with it. He noticed four men on horseback entering the west end of town, their clothes drab and covered in dust. Their horses were loaded like they were on a long journey and they hitched up outside the saloon and went inside. They didn't look like trouble but Ben knew appearances counted for jack shit and when Cort came back out with the beers he figured the Marshal should know.

"Four new faces just hit town. They're in the saloon."

Cort glanced over, taking in the tethered horses. "Travellers?"

"Reckon so."

"We should head on over, take a look."

Ben glanced at him. "I ain't wearing that badge yet, Marshal!"

Fifteen minutes later the beers were gone, the sun was setting and Cort decided to check out the saloon. Ben tagged along, figuring somebody needed to watch the Marshal's back, but nothing much had changed; the horses were still outside and everything seemed quiet. Cort went in first and a lot of friendly greetings were called to him from around the room. The place was busy and as they headed towards the bar a whole forest of hands were stuck out to shake Cort's. People were glad to see him, asking how he was, offering him a drink. Cort was distracted by all the fuss and Ben glanced around, scoping out the room. The four newcomers were sitting near the door, playing cards and drinking beer. None of them looked up at the disturbance and Ben figured that was okay. What the hell did they care about this town anyway?

A glass of whisky was pushed into his hand, compliments of somebody and he ended up standing by the bar, right next to Cort who was deep in conversation with Charlie Barton from the liquor store. A well-dressed fellow sat down to the beat up piano, began tinkling out a tune, and a few people started singing along. Ben smiled. This was almost pleasant.

Two of the newcomers stood up. They collected their empty glasses and headed for the bar. One of them pushed in next to Ben, the other one between Cort and Charlie Barton. He thought nothing of it, just thirsty men needing a drink, but a second later something hard jammed against his ribs, right over his heart. A voice in his ear, quiet and calm:

"Take off your gunbelt and drop it, Ben Carter."

He stared at the man, startled. He didn't know him, he'd never seen him before in his life, but that didn't really matter right now. He glanced down at the pistol in the man's hand and then across at Cort. The look in Cort's eyes told him his own situation wasn't much better.

Ben had little choice but to comply. He watched the other two men heading over from their table as he fumbled at his gunbelt buckle and dropped the entire rig to the floor. Nobody else in the room seemed to have noticed what was happening, they were still busy singing along to the piano.

"Get down on your knees. Put your hands behind your head."

He looked at the man again, met a pair of eyes which were clear, focussed and determined.

"Do it now or I'll shoot you through the heart."

Ben obeyed and the gun was immediately pressed against his left temple.

Above him he could hear an exchange between Cort and the other stranger. Cort didn't sound co-operative but then the two extra gang members arrived, grabbed his arms and slammed him hard into a nearby pillar. Their comrade pulled his Colt from its holster and stuck it into his own belt. Cort struggled and swore and the man punched him in the guts.

There was suddenly a lot of shouting as the saloon regulars woke up to current events but the unmistakable roar of a pistol silenced them. The man standing above Ben spoke up.

"You people play nice now, you hear? We've come for Ben Carter and you don't need to get involved."

Ben's heart was racing. His past had just caught up with him, fast, and he'd honestly never expected it to happen in a place like this!"

Cort had stopped struggling. Now he was just glaring.

"That goes for you as well Marshal. Don't give us any trouble!"

"Then you'd better tell me why you want my Deputy so bad. That way we'll avoid a lot of unpleasantness."

"Your Deputy?" The man laughed. "It might interest you to know that your _Deputy_ robbed the church to the tune of thirty thousand dollars."

Ben was wondering when he'd become Cort's Deputy, though he had to admit that using the title was pretty effective, but this latest revelation chased the thought clean away. That was one piece of information he'd never intended Cort to know, never planned on telling him, but Cort wasn't even looking his way.

"You represent the church?"

The man nodded. "The name's Jack Bellows. I heard you used to be a preacher, reckon you could have used a cash investment like that."

Cort frowned. "I'm still trying to figure out how faith got so tied up with money. Stealing from the church isn't right but if that's what Ben did then the US Marshal should handle it."

"I don't work that way. Ben Carter did wrong and the church wants to give him a chance to repent."

Ben's stomach tied up in knots. He knew what that meant. "It's kinda hard to ask forgiveness with a rope pulled tight round your neck!"

Jack Bellows punched him hard in the mouth, knocking him to the floor. "Nobody asked your opinion, boy." Ben tasted blood and a moment later Bellows was squatting over him with a length of rope. He bound Ben's wrists tightly before him then pulled him to his feet.

Ben looked at Cort, saw frustration and confusion in his eyes.

"Is that true? Are you going to hang him without any kind of trial?"

Bellows shook his head. "Don't go believing the words of a lying, cheating thief, Marshal. Like I said we only want to help him, let him put something back into the church to replace what he took."

"So why have you got him tied up like that?"

"Because otherwise he'll run away." Bellows said it slowly, patronisingly, spelling it out like Cort was an idiot. "We've been after this man for six months and frankly our church doesn't have the resources to waste on him."

Cort wasn't buying it and he started struggling again. Ben figured he was about to get another fist in his stomach when Charlie Barton stepped up.

"Why don't you tell us which church you're from, Mister Bellows?"

Bellows smiled. "We work for Henry Usher's church, I'm sure you know it."

Ben heard a sudden buzz of excited conversation in the room as the patrons all picked up on the name, but Cort reacted like he'd been sucker punched. He went dead still and was staring at Bellows like he was some kind of ghost. Bellows nodded at him, the smile a little smug now.

"I see _you've_ heard of it Marshal. Now, do you reckon you can let us leave quietly?"

Cort continued to stare. When the men holding him let go of his arms he just stood there, leaning against the pillar like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Ben couldn't begin to imagine why Henry Usher's name had affected him like this, but it seemed he'd just lost his only ally. He glanced around the saloon, wondering if he should run for it. He'd certainly get shot in the back but it was better than what Henry Usher would do to him. Bellows was right next to him and he braced himself, about to give him a hard shove before taking off, but then Cort spoke up.

"I can't let you take him, not tonight anyway. Why don't you bring Henry Usher along to my office tomorrow and we'll talk about this sensibly."

Bellows shook his head. "He's slippery as an eel. If you keep him here tonight he'll be gone by morning, I guarantee."

Cort strode over and grabbed Ben roughly by the arm. There was something fierce burning in his eyes and it made Ben nervous.

"I can explain all this Cort, if you just give me a…"

"Stow it Ben, this isn't the time or place"

Cort turned to Jack Bellows. "I'll take good care of him. He's not going anywhere!"

"I appreciate your intentions Marshal but I've got my orders. Ben Carter's coming with us now and I don't reckon you've got much choice in the matter."

"If Cort wants him to stay then that's how it's gonna be." That was Charlie Barton again. "You can't just walk in here and take a man by force, 'specially when we've only got your word he's done anything wrong. You ain't the law and you ain't got that right."

"Well that's true." Bellows scratched at his cheek. "But I don't see how you're going to stop us."

"You might be holding a gun mister, but do you reckon you can shoot everybody in this saloon before we shoot you?"

Ben glanced around. A few men had got to their feet and their hands were hovering near their guns. He watched as more got up and suddenly the whole saloon was watching and ready. Jack Bellows took it all in calmly and Ben felt the Marshal's grip on his arm tighten.

"I'm sure we can work this out to everybody's satisfaction". Cort's voice was quiet and reasonable, but he sounded weary. "Tonight I'll listen to Ben's side of the story, and tomorrow Mister Usher can come by and explain the other side. Then we'll decide what to do."

"He'll just fill your head with shit Marshal. By tomorrow you won't be able to make any kind of fair decision."

Cort smiled. "Then you'd better hope I'm not as stupid as you seem to think I am."

Jack Bellows thought on that for a moment and then holstered his gun. His comrades followed his lead. He raised his voice and addressed the whole saloon.

"I'll give you people something to consider overnight. Mister Usher's thinking about building a church in this town, bringing a little hope and good fortune to Redemption. What I've seen here tonight ain't too promising though. Our church is based on trust and belief, and if you don't trust Mister Usher to do the right thing with Benedict Carter, then maybe he'll think again."

"We trust Cort too!" That was Horace, hollering out from behind the bar. Ben looked over and saw he was cradling a shotgun in his arms. "Right now Henry Usher's just a name and a lot of hot air. We'll decide if Redemption needs his church or not!"

There was a rumble of approval from the rest of the saloon and Bellows nodded.

"Do what you need to, but don't get too comfortable folks. We'll be back."

He headed for the door and his comrades trailed behind him. Cort stopped one of them, retrieved his Colt 45 from the man's belt then followed them out onto the porch. He dragged Ben along and didn't let go of his arm until the gang had mounted their horses and were two hundred yards down the road.

"When were you planning on telling me?" Cort was still watching the men but his voice was hard and he sounded angry. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Ben was annoyed and a little disappointed. "You've already decided I'm guilty then, Marshal?"

Cort swung round to face him, his eyes blazing. "Tell me I'm wrong, Ben. Please!"

Ben shook his head. "I stole that money like they said. But there's more to it than you think."

"I hope to God there is, and you can explain it over at the hotel."

Cort gave him a shove in the right direction and it wasn't friendly. Ben was pretty sure that right now he was Cort's prisoner instead of his buddy.

"You going to at least untie me, Cort?"

"The hell I am."


	9. Chapter Eight

A day could sure go to shit fast.

Cort stood on the hotel veranda, his head resting against a post and tried to compose himself. He was angry and confused and the two feelings were so mixed up right now he couldn't think straight.

It was raining hard and he heard the distant boom of thunder. It looked as though a storm was heading towards town and the rain had cleared the street, but he could see people milling about on the saloon veranda, no doubt discussing the recent excitement. Cort was still trying to figure out what had happened there, how everybody in the room had decided to rally round him. Two days ago no-one would have lifted a finger to help and he pondered how people's minds had turned around so drastically. Right now though, that was the least of his worries.

He was having trouble believing the gang of men had been working for Henry Usher. They were brutal, professional thugs and he couldn't imagine them in church on Sunday morning, singing praises to the Lord. What troubled him more was the fact he'd been offered a job by their employer which probably involved doing pretty much what he'd witnessed tonight. Cort reckoned he'd made the right decision in turning Henry Usher down. He couldn't treat people like dogs no matter how much they might deserve it, but he needed to keep an open mind and not let personal feelings get in the way. He'd chosen to live on nothing for three years in his pursuit of faith, enjoying that dependency on God, but he'd also made absolutely no difference to people's lives in that time. Henry Usher brought change on a grand scale and Cort knew it was impossible to work at his level without hiring protection. It wasn't the way he would personally choose to do God's work, but that didn't make it wrong.

Something far worse was bothering him though, and it had everything to do with the man he'd locked in a cupboard under the stairs. He needed to go talk to Ben Carter, couldn't leave him cramped up in the dark for much longer, but he needed to be calm when he did it. He was angry with Ben but it was just a part of something deeper. Cort felt betrayed. He'd liked Ben, seen a lot of similarities between them, begun to consider him a friend and hoped he'd stick around so they might work together. He hadn't known much about the man, hadn't bothered finding out either, and now he felt like a fool for putting his trust in a common thief. Was he really so desperate for company?

He wouldn't condemn Ben for stealing the money, not when he'd committed a far worse crime against the church, but was disappointed he'd chosen to keep it quiet. He'd seen the expression on Ben's face when Jack Bellows announced his crime to the saloon. He'd looked horrified and he'd been looking right at Cort.

Cort didn't understand that reaction. Ben seemed to know all about John Herod and the bad old days, so he surely knew Cort spent years as an outlaw, robber and worse. Every man had a right to change for the better and Cort wasn't about to pass judgement on a crime he knew nothing about. And why should Ben have confided in him anyway? They'd known each other exactly two days and there had been plenty of hints dropped along the way. Cort knew Ben was on the run but since he wasn't fleeing the law he'd figured that was okay, that together they could deal with anybody who might show up with a grudge. He sure hadn't expected that grudge to come from the biggest church organisation in the territory.

Nagging at the back of his mind was something Ben had said before he got punched in the mouth. Cort didn't want to believe that Henry Usher, a man of God, dealt with wrongdoers by stringing them up without trial but Ben had looked terrified, like he honestly believed that was going to happen. Since Cort had once been in that unfortunate position himself, and wouldn't wish it on anybody else, he had to get to the bottom of things. Now was the time to get it done.

He sighed and headed to the hotel reception desk. He collected the key for the room he called his office, a bottle of whisky and a glass. On impulse he went back and got another glass. Ben could probably use a drink and in spite of the disappointing outcome to the day, Cort still owed him his life.

He unlocked the door to the office. It was a room where they usually kept cleaning materials and it still smelled of soap and polish. It was too hot in the daytime, chilly at night and there was only enough space for a table and couple of chairs. He lit the oil lamp on the table, unloaded the whisky then headed for the stair cupboard. It was a crappy excuse for a cell but it had a sturdy door with a stout bolt and it was all he'd been able to come up with at short notice.

Ben Carter was hunched sideways on the floor, surrounded by mops and brooms, and he swore and pulled his face away as light from the parlour hit him in directly. He'd been trying to get free of the ropes and Cort could see blood on his wrists. He felt guilty for leaving Ben tied up so long and reached forward to help him stand. Ben shook off his hand, throwing him a black look.

"We ain't friends, Marshal, so don't go acting like you care."

Cort was a little stung by the words but Ben was right. They were currently lawman and suspect and friendship had no part of it. "We need to talk, Ben, so you may as well come out."

Ben walked stiffly towards the office. He was tense, angry and Cort figured he might not untie him just yet. He didn't fancy a full-scale fight in the cramped little room. Ben paused at the door and Cort pushed him inside.

"Sit down and don't give me trouble."

Ben continued glowering as Cort took a seat on the other side of the table. He poured a glass of whisky for himself.

"You want one?"

"What I want is to get these ropes off. I can't feel my hands."

"I'll cut them when I'm sure you won't go acting stupid."

"What do you think I'm gonna do, Marshal? My gun's in the saloon."

That was true enough and Cort used his pocket knife to cut the ropes. Ben hissed with pain and it was obvious why. He'd made a pretty bad mess of his wrists; they were bruised and bleeding.

"Hell, Ben, why'd you do that?"

Ben was flexing and shaking his hands, bunching his fists, trying to get some circulation going. He glared at Cort.

"Because you've already judged me and tomorrow Henry Usher's gonna take me away. If you had any idea what that bastard's gonna do then you'd be wanting to leave as well."

"What's he going to do?"

Ben shook his head. "What's the use in telling you? I stole from the church and you were a preacher. There's no way you can see things straight."

"Maybe you should have a little faith in me."

"Why? You and Henry Usher got way too much in common for my liking."

Cort could understand Ben's belligerence and distrust. If he was sat in that other chair he'd be suspicious as hell too. He tried a different tack.

"Henry Usher paid me a visit last night, he offered me a job and I…"

He didn't get a chance to finish. Ben shot to his feet and kicked his chair across the room. He looked furious but scared shitless.

"I fucking knew it, you two are working together! What was the plan? Keep me hanging around in Redemption long enough for Usher to come find me?"

Cort shook his head wearily. "If I was working with Usher I wouldn't have stopped his men taking you tonight."

"_You_ didn't stop them. You just wanted to look good in front of them people, make yourself look like a real marshal and not just some broken down preacher with nowhere better to go."

Ben was agitated and getting more irrational by the second. Cort reached for his gun then thought better of it. He didn't want to draw down on Ben; that would only make the whole sorry situation infinitely worse.

"Just sit will you? I didn't take his job, and I don't care if you took his damned money, I just want to know why he wants you so bad."

"Stealing's a sin and I stole from God, of course you fucking care."

"You stole from the church, which is a lot different to stealing from God, and I don't have any right to judge on either count."

Ben frowned. "Why?"

Cort sighed. There was no easy way to say this and although he'd confided in a few others along the way, he still hated hearing the words come out of his mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that whatever God was doing, he'd stop and take a good look at the man speaking them.

"I shot a priest once. There was no motive or justification. John Herod gave me a choice between killing him or dying so I took the coward's path."

"No shit." Ben dragged his chair back to the table and sat down hard. "Is that why you became a preacher?"

"One of them. It didn't do much good though. Here I am back to carrying a gun and shooting men."

"What kind of job did Usher offer you, Cort? I don't think you'd like the preachers in his churches much."

Cort raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, but Ben was calming down and might finally be ready to talk. He poured him a glass of whisky and pushed it across the table.

"I'm not fit to be a priest and I think he knew it. He offered me a job in security, protecting church money on its way to the bank."

Ben nodded. "He gave you the story about how great his ministry is? How many churches he builds, how many people he helps, how much money he raises?"

Cort nodded. "Most folks I've spoken to say the same thing?"

"It's like that on the surface." Ben took a gulp of whisky. "He builds churches and gets donations so he can build more. He brings faith to Godless towns and makes life better for some folks, but there's others who end up in hell, and it's always the wealthy ones. Usher says he's doing God's work but he only sees God as a way to get rich. Anybody who stands in his way gets hurt or killed."

He leaned across the table, an urgent look in his eyes. "You need to understand this; if I say anything else you'll be in as much trouble as I am."

"You haven't said anything substantial, Ben, and Usher says all the money goes back to the church."

"That's where the donations go, but money from his other enterprises goes straight to his pocket. You should see the house he's built for himself in Tucson; almost takes your breath away."

"Other enterprises?" Cort scratched at the bandage on his head, unconvinced by what he was hearing.

Ben sensed his reserve because he leaned back in his chair and looked wary. He considered a long time before he spoke again. "Usher specialises in extortion. Nobody knows about it except the men working it and the poor bastards getting robbed. They can't speak up for themselves though."

This was getting more ludicrous by the minute and beginning to sound like the lies of a desperate man. Cort knew he owed Ben a fair shot at explaining himself but even so, he couldn't help smiling. "He robs people?"

Ben glared. "I know you won't believe me over a _churchman_ like Usher, but it's real simple. Folks admit to all kinds of things while they're in a Confession box. They tell the priest the bad things they've done, looking for forgiveness, and the priest passes it on to Usher's collectors. If those folks have got money they get a visit from a collection gang who expose them to the law, the newspapers or their wives if they don't pay up. Once they're on that path, they keep on paying forever."

Cort was irritated and fought it down, trying to keep an open mind even though Ben was pretty much talking heresy now. "No priest would break the sanctity of Confession. How could they live with themselves, or with God?"

"You don't like it 'cause you was a real preacher and did it for the right reasons. The ones Usher uses are only in it for money, and they get well paid."

"Nobody made a connection between the priest and the men who take their money?"

Ben shrugged. "Some, but they don't live long enough to spread it round. Most of 'em figure it's God's punishment, I guess." He smiled grimly. "No-one's figured Henry Usher's behind it, he's too smart and keeps his distance. The collection business runs independent of the ministry with its own administration. Everybody takes their cut and passes the rest to Usher."

Ben looked Cort right in the eye. "That's why Usher wants me, Marshal. Not for the money I took but for what I know about him. He can't let the regular law get involved because that would expose him, so he'll take me into the desert and kill me quietly but I tell you something, it won't be pretty."

Cort frowned. "You've been on the road for six months, who else you told about this?"

Ben snorted. "Who'd believe me? I keep my head down and my mouth shut, that way I get to live a little longer. But Usher's gonna assume I've passed all this along and you should start watching your back."

Cort sniffed. "I'm not afraid of him."

"A fast gun don't work against him, my friend, and I'll tell you something else; once you've sworn faith to Usher you're in for life. The only time a man gets to leave is when he dies or gets killed."

The idea of corruption among priests affected Cort more profoundly than anything else Ben had told him but also struck a chord. He didn't want to believe it but it wasn't the kind of lie many men would dream up under pressure. Ben might have figured it a good way to push an ex-priest's buttons and turn him against Usher and his ministry, but Cort didn't think so. He could read men pretty well and if Ben Carter was making this up then he was the most convincing and creative liar he'd ever met. Ben still hadn't answered the most important question though, and didn't seem about to volunteer the information anytime soon.

Cort drained his whisky glass. "Are you going to tell me how you know all of this, Ben?"

"Haven't you figured it out? I was one of his collectors."


	10. Chapter Nine

Ben checked his Winchester rifles were loaded, rammed them into their holsters, gave his saddle strap a final tug then led his horse to the stable door and opened it a crack, peering into the torrential rain. The storm was right overhead and the roar of thunder was deafening. He could see lightening slamming into the hills out near the graveyard and hoped it wouldn't spook his horse. Ben was a little spooked himself; he didn't fancy riding out on a night when it seemed the devil himself had come to play stud, but had no choice. He had get out of Redemption while there was still a chance and he was twitchy as hell, staring out into the shadows, expecting to see Henry Usher's men creeping up on him. He had no doubt they were coming, might be here already since a storm like this was perfect cover. Visibility was down to a few yards, the thunder was louder than a gunshot and nobody was likely to be on the street to witness foul play.

And where the hell was Cort? Ben checked his pocket watch. It read nearly ten and the marshal had been gone too long. Cort didn't seem to think he was in any danger but Ben knew better, knew Henry Usher wouldn't wait until morning to talk; he was far too suspicious and paranoid. Usher's way was to act first, ask questions later but Cort wouldn't believe it. Ben knew he should be grateful he'd been given him the benefit of the doubt, knew how ludicrous his story must sound to somebody who wasn't part of it, and it was testament to Cort's better judgement that he was standing here now, preparing to flee Redemption.

He'd begged Cort to ride with him, even as a only a temporary leave of absence, just to get him out of town until Usher and his men had gone. But Cort wouldn't budge; seemed to think he could settle things with Usher in the morning and when Ben pointed out how that might be difficult with the prize long gone, he'd just shrugged and announced he didn't have a horse. The man was so stubborn Ben felt like punching him and the profound guilt which dragged at his conscience was quickly turning into frustrated anger. If anything happened to Cort he'd be to blame; he'd shot his mouth off to the marshal, told him a lot of things he didn't need to know just to save his own skin, and now he was taking off and leaving Cort to face the music alone. Ben punched the stable door and swore.

"One day it'll punch back."

He jumped in surprise and spun round, his hand flashing to a gun which wasn't there, but it was only Cort standing behind him, dripping wet and wearing that lop-sided grin.

"Feeling jumpy?"

"Hell Cort, why you sneaking up on me like that?"

"I shimmied through the window. Didn't want to be seen coming here, though who'd be fool enough to play in this weather I don't know."

He had Ben's gunbelt slung across his shoulder and he dropped it to the floor. Ben strapped it on hastily, checking the Remington was fully loaded before holstering it.

"How are things at the saloon? You were gone so long I figured you'd hit some kind of trouble."

Cort rubbed rainwater off his face and slicked his hair back. "It's quiet. The rain drove most folks home and the whole town's pretty much locked down."

Ben's stomach twisted. This scenario was just too perfect. He gave it one last shot.

"Usher's men are out there, sneaking around in the storm and when they can't find me they'll come looking for you. They'll kill you for what you know, but first they'll beat the shit out of you for letting me go. I know how this works, I've seen it happen and if you're too pig headed to listen then I'm staying right here in Redemption. I won't have your death on my conscience."

Cort eyed him evenly, not even remotely rattled by the words. "I can look after myself Ben Carter and I'll tell you something else, I _want _to talk to Henry Usher. I _want_ to hear his side of the story. I'm letting you go because I don't appreciate threats and I won't put the town at risk should those men try and take you again. I reckon you should go before I change my mind."

Ben snorted with frustration. "You're one stubborn son of a bitch, Cort. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Cort smiled and stepped forward, his hand outstretched. They shook warmly.

"Where you headed, Ben?"

"No idea, buddy; just getting the hell out of Redemption."

Cort pulled the stable door open as Ben mounted up. The rain hadn't eased and he braced himself, tipping his hat to the marshal as he nudged his horse forward, spurring her into a fast gallop as soon as they cleared the building, heading north. He didn't look back. He stayed off the main street, pounding and splashing along the back of the town buildings, through water and mud, glancing left and right for signs of trouble, finding none. He was out of Redemption before he knew it and slowed his horse to a walk. She was steaming and blowing in the moist, chill air and he finally turned in his saddle and checked for signs of pursuit. It was hard to tell, since the rain was falling down like a sheet, so he took cover behind a rocky outcrop and waited to see if anybody passed. Fifteen minutes later he was still there, soaked to the skin and his horse was getting impatient, stamping her hooves and tossing her head. Ben decided that nobody was coming for him, not tonight, and as the fear and panic subsided so did the adrenalin which had kept him warm. He shivered and urged the horse forward.

He tried not to think about Cort, back there in town and too damned obstinate to see how vulnerable he was. Ben had such a bad feeling about tonight it was almost palpable, like the grim reaper itself was lurching along ahead of him in the dirt, grinning over its shoulder. But what could he do? If he went back and tried to help they'd probably both wind up dead. It was conceivable Cort might come to an agreement with Henry Usher but Ben doubted it. Usher was not a reasonable man, especially when he felt threatened, when things didn't go to plan and people didn't roll over and do as commanded, and he never played fair. He was a ruthless, devious, manipulative bastard and only a few people had ever gotten to see that side of him. Ben was one of them.

His horse was walking so slowly she'd almost come to a standstill. Ben didn't notice; he was too caught up in the moral battleground which comprised saving his own life at the expense of another's. If Cort was killed on his account he'd never be able to forgive himself. He already had one terrible death on his conscience, and he didn't need another.

Tonight's scenario in the hotel had put a hitch in his feelings towards Cort, and he would forever resent the marshal for locking him in a dark, stinking cupboard, but he understood why those things happened. Cort was doing his job and had stepped well outside the authority of his office by releasing a suspect, one who'd confessed to his crime no less, in the belief it was the right thing to do. It was the preacher in Cort which had defined that action, and he'd certainly pay for his act of kindness, might even be paying for it right now,.

A bolt of lightening slammed into the ground ten yards away, illuminating the town graveyard. Thunder boomed and Ben's horse screamed with fright and reared, throwing him out of the saddle backwards. He managed to hang onto the reins and spent the next few minutes fighting the terrified animal as the storm hammered around them. He knew they couldn't continue much further, had to hole up until the worst was over, and the graveyard reminded him of the little shack he'd spotted a few days ago. It was perfect.

He tugged the horse around the periphery of the cemetery, giving it a wide berth, mindful of the open graves he'd seen before, and approached the rear of the shelter. There was a lean-to hunched against it, somewhere for his horse to stand out of the rain but Ben froze, cursing under his breath as he realised it was already occupied. Not by one horse, which might signify a solitary gravedigger, but five of them parked there, all packed up like they were on a long journey. Ben eyed the tiny shack, there was no way that place could accommodate five men and, dread twisting his guts, he staked his horse to the nearest piece of bush and moved in for a closer look. He didn't need to worry about being quiet, the storm was taking care of that, but his heart was hammering in his chest as he approached and saw smoke rising from the roof. There was somebody in there, maybe more than one, but where were the rest?

He edged down the side of the shack, listening for voices inside and hearing nothing. As he neared the entrance the graveyard itself came into full view. He hunkered down and watched as it was lit up by successive flashes of lightening but there was nobody out there. Nobody living, anyway. He checked carefully in all directions, assisted by the storm, but the whole area was devoid of life.

Finally he approached the door which was badly hinged and hanging at an angle so he could get a glimpse inside. There was a fire burning, the smell of something cooking but he still couldn't see anybody. He backed up a few steps, about to kick the door and announce his presence forcefully when it swung open of its own accord and the silhouette of somebody big and obviously male was standing there, obliterating the firelight. Ben couldn't make out any of the man's features but he heard the fellow curse when he realised he had company. He reached for his gun but Ben was much faster, the Remington was already in his hand.

"Easy friend. I ain't looking for trouble, just somewhere to sit out the storm."

The man came forward and Ben peered at his face, trying to get a good look, but it was too dark and wet to see anything much. His movement afforded a good view into the shack though, and Ben saw it was empty.

"You should stand still, mister; tell me why a man on his lonesome has five horses out back?"

"The man took another step forward. "I reckon you should mind your business, son."

The voice was hostile and he kept coming forward. Ben retreated, glanced back to see where he was going and froze as he realised he was two feet away from the edge of an open grave. The man was pushing him that way and Ben wondered why he was so belligerent. A moment later he knew.

A particularly intense burst of lightening lit a face he recognised it in the same instant the man went for his gun. He was one of the gang members from the saloon, the one who'd punched Cort in the gut. Usher's man. Ben's blood boiled and he pulled and fired before the man even touched his weapon. The bullet ripped into his guts and he recoiled, teetering unsteadily for a moment before lurching forward, still reaching for his gun. Ben's second bullet tore into his heart but he still kept coming like a blind ox. Ben stepped aside as he staggered past and fell right into the grave, landing face down. That was an easy job for the gravedigger tomorrow. Ben put a final bullet through the back of his head, reloaded his gun then sank to his knees, his mind whirling.

Usher's gang was still around but they weren't near the graveyard, that was for sure. The only place they'd be interested in right now was Redemption. But why were there five horses and only four men? Ben was so wet and numb with cold that his brain had slowed down. One man was here so the other three had walked to town in the pissing rain. But why were there five horses and only four men? Finally it came to him.

_The fifth man was Henry Usher._

"Fuck." Ben leapt to his feet and raced back to his horse. He jumped into the saddle and kicked her into a flat out gallop. All his instincts had been right and he rode with his heart in his mouth and his stomach churning so badly he thought he might throw up. He was dreading what might have happened as he'd made his slow way up to the cemetery, dreading what he might find in Redemption but as he approached the edge of town he slowed down and forced himself to think straight. Charging in blindly would only get the gang's attention. They would certainly have posted lookouts and Ben couldn't take all of them at once, not head on.

He tethered his horse to the same rocky outcrop he'd used on the way out, and went the rest of the way on foot. The rain was still doing a pretty good job of obscuring things but the storm seemed to be moving away and the lightning flashes were less frequent. Ben stooped close to the ground as he saw the marshal's office coming up and he flattened himself completely as he caught movement behind the building.

He squinted into the shadows, cursing the storm for giving up just when he needed it most, realising there was a dim light inside. No-one would have noticed it unless they were this close, but it meant somebody was in there and that couldn't be good.

Finally he got what he needed. A flash of lightening in the distance showed him the full scene and he felt like he'd been punched between they eyes. There was a solitary horse tethered behind the marshal's office and three men were approaching it. They were dragging a fourth man between them. He was limp, his wrists bound before him, his head lolling forward like he was unconscious. Ben couldn't see his face but he recognised the long hair and ill-fitting clothes instantly.

It was Cort.


	11. Chapter Ten

Cort was wet, cold and disoriented. He seemed to be moving, and knew he was outside because thunder was roaring and rain was pouring down the back of his neck and soaking his shirt. His arms and legs were like jelly, he couldn't get his eyelids to open, but sensation was beginning to return. He could feel ropes on his wrists, hands clamped around his arms, dragging him along, and his ribs were hurting. His head was filled with some kind of fog, like he'd drunk a couple of bottles of whisky in quick succession, but just as he started to wonder how he'd ended up like this it lifted as quickly as it had arrived. He could feel strength returning to his muscles but right now it made sense to play dead. Perhaps he could take them by surprise? When he could remember who they were and why he was apparently their prisoner.

He remembered Ben galloping off into the night and he'd felt a mixture of regret and despondency as he watched him go. Ben had been the closest thing he'd had to a friend in Redemption, Cort knew he'd never see him again and it hurt him deeper than he'd imagined. He'd felt more alone than ever and couldn't bring himself to go back to the hotel. He'd only sit there on his own and wish he was out on the porch with a beer, shooting the breeze with the man who'd just left town. So he'd headed over to the saloon

He'd been in ten minutes earlier to retrieve Ben's gunbelt and although the room had emptied out considerably since the storm started up, he'd still been sidetracked by a few people babbling in his ear about Henry Usher. Ben's utter conviction that Usher's men were in town and stalking them both had unnerved him slightly so he hadn't paid much attention to what they were saying. He didn't share Ben's fears but he understood them and he wanted to get back to the stable as soon as possible, get Ben on his way. He had no qualms about releasing his erstwhile captive, knew it was the right thing to do. If only one quarter of what he'd learned about Henry Usher were true, there was no way he could leave anybody to that man's mercy. There was plenty he still didn't know, but Ben was gone so there was no point dwelling on it.

Second time around in the saloon he'd warmed up and dried off next to the wood burner in the centre of the room, drank some beer and talked with Horace the barkeep. Cort was interested to know what the townsfolk made of the incident with Usher's gang, curious about the level of feeling towards one of Usher's churches arriving in Redemption, especially in light of his recent findings. But it seemed most folks were in agreement and didn't want any part of an organisation which seemed to consider itself above the law, they'd had enough of that with John Herod in town. Cort was relieved to hear it and wondered exactly how Usher managed to convince so many other towns to follow his cause. Then he figured not too many other towns would be harbouring fugitives like Ben Carter. And what nobody knew wouldn't hurt them…

Fifty minutes later Horace hinted he'd like to close up, since they were the only two people still there. Cort knew he could get another beer at the hotel so he'd dashed across the street, trying not to get drenched again, but pulled up short when he'd seen a light inside the stable. His heart began racing and it was for all the wrong reasons. He'd thought Ben had changed his mind and come back, was in there unsaddling his horse and he'd gone charging over, unsure whether to reprimand him for being a damned idiot or welcome him back with open arms. Cort suspected it would have been the latter but it had proven academic.

Ben wasn't in the stable, but three of Usher's men were. Ben's instincts had been correct all along and Cort cursed himself for not heeding his warnings, for being fool enough to think he could deal with a gang of ruthless, organised and determined men alone. Their speed and skill was incredible and he hadn't stood a chance. He'd been ambushed from behind, disarmed, knocked down, bound and then pinned to the ground by two men he recognised from the barroom earlier. The third was a stranger and it was this man who pulled a rag and small bottle from his pocket. Cort had watched, bewildered, as he removed the stopper and debated with his companions how much of it to use on their captive without killing him. He'd started struggling, not liking what he was hearing, and the man had shaken a few drops of fluid onto the cloth then kicked him in the ribs. The pain made him inhale sharply and the rag had been clamped over his mouth. He'd felt dizzy, sick and then he'd blacked out.

Whatever they'd used hadn't lasted long and it had pretty much worn off by the time Cort got his thoughts straight. The pain in his chest was getting worse, bad enough to make him suspect a few cracked ribs, and he opened his eyes in time to see them approaching the Marshal's office. They dragged him up the steps, through the door and deposited him on the floor of the big, bare, dimly lit room. The wood against his face smelled new and fresh and he considered the irony of the situation. The first time in his new office was as a prisoner.

"Is he conscious?"

Cort knew the voice. A moment later he was rolled onto his back and found himself looking up into the gaunt, watchful face of Jack Bellows. The three men who'd brought him here were standing close, alert and ready. Two of them had shotguns pointed at him and he knew he wasn't going to get out of this, not without some kind of miracle.

Bellows squatted beside him and his voice was quiet, reasonable.

"I'll make this easy Marshal. Tell me what you've done with Ben Carter and I won't hurt you."

"Go to hell." Cort tried to sit up but somebody's foot on his shoulder forced him back. He grimaced as pain tore into his chest and Bellows grinned, cocking an enquiring glance at his comrades. The man who'd kicked him spoke up.

"Ribs, boss. On the right."

Bellows ran a rough hand across Cort's ribs, watching him intently. Cort tried his best to keep a poker face but he couldn't help wincing and cursing as hard fingers came into contact with the tender area. Then they pressed down. He grunted with pain and cursed again.

"Ben Carter, Marshal?"

"He's gone." Cort struggled to get the words out. "Left town hours ago."

"Where did he go?"

"I didn't ask and he didn't say."

Bellows jabbed his fingers hard against the cracked ribs and Cort's eyes watered.

"Come on Marshal, you and him were buddies, he must have said something?"

They could probably do this kind of thing to him all night but Cort wasn't sure he could keep up. He glared at his tormentor.

"Alright then, I'll tell you. Just quit prodding at me."

He dropped his voice, almost to a whisper. "He said he was going to Bisbee."

"What was that?"

Bellows instinctively leaned in closer, trying to hear the words, and Cort jack-knifed off the floor and head butted him, feeling his forehead make solid contact, hearing Bellows' nose crack. Bellows stumbled backwards, yelling, blood streaming down his face and Cort tried to get up again, hoping to use this moment of chaos to his advantage. No dice though. The other three men hadn't budged and once again a foot on his shoulder pinned him to the floor, harder than before and this time it stayed there.

Bellows wrenched a handkerchief from his pocket and clamped it to his face. He lurched forward, looking murderous "You'll pay for that, you son of a bitch."

"Back off Jack, you deserved it. You shouldn't toy with a man like this; don't you remember he used to be _Cort The Killer_?"

Cort also recognised this new voice and he stared over in the direction it came from, shocked beyond belief to see Henry Usher step from the darkness in a far corner, where the bars of a cell-under-construction were casting black pools of dense shadow. Usher moseyed over like he was taking a stroll in the country.

"Let him up boys, give him some dignity."

Hands reached down and hauled him to his feet, but they didn't let go of his arms. Usher looked at him calmly, his cold blue eyes astute and appraising.

"Ben Carter's gone fellas. Cort here believed everything he heard and let him go. I suppose we can't blame the Marshal of a town like this for being a little simple minded at times."

The men laughed and Cort scowled.

"It doesn't take brains to see what you're doing is wrong, Usher."

Usher nodded agreeably. "And what might that be, exactly?"

"Last time I read the Bible I didn't see any mention of getting rich by corrupting priests, and I don't find it especially Godly."

Usher smiled. "I think you and I should have a little talk, in private." He turned to his men. "You boys go outside and keep watch. I don't want anybody sneaking up."

Jack Bellows still had the handkerchief pressed to his nose and his voice sounded ragged. "You can't be alone with him Mister Usher, not like this. He's dangerous." Cort smiled at the grudging respect and Bellows scowled at him.

"He's tied up Jack, I'll be fine."

Bellows shook his head stubbornly, dripping blood onto the floor. Usher stared at it for a moment then decided . "Do what you need to."

Bellows turned to his companions, jerked his thumb towards a roof beam by the cell and they nodded. Their silence unnerved Cort and when he was dragged into the corner and saw them throw a long length of rope over the beam, he was convinced they were going to hang him. He fought with the strength of utter desperation; he threw off the men holding him and managed to kick one in the nuts, then rammed the other head first into the iron bars of the cell. But there were too many of them and a strategically-placed blow to his ribs, courtesy of Jack Bellows, sent him to his knees; dizzy, breathless and close to throwing up. They attached the rope to the bonds on his wrists and pulled on it, hauling him back to his feet, pulling his arms above his head. Bellows inspected the work.

"A little more, I reckon. We don't want the Marshal here losing interest in what Mister Usher's got to say."

The rope pulled tighter, yanking his wrists higher. The man he'd kicked stepped up, clutching his crotch and scowling.

"More." His voice was guttural; almost a grunt. "Make the motherfucker hurt."

The third pull on the rope dragged him up onto the balls of his feet and it really did hurt like hell. His whole weight was dragging down on his arms and his wrists were burning like somebody had set them on fire. They tied it off on one of the cell bars and went outside, shotguns ready. Jack Bellows stopped to talk with Usher on his way and Cort pulled and twisted on the rope, trying to free himself, but it was useless. He was sweating with pain and something approaching panic; this was the start of something ugly and he recalled Ben predicting how he'd probably get beaten senseless before getting killed. There was nobody around to help; no-one knew he was up here and even if he shouted, the night was too wild for anybody to hear.

Eventually Usher brought a candle over, the only source of light in the big, empty room, and set it on the floor. He appraised his captive for a moment.

"You look like a scarecrow, boy."

Cort glanced down at himself. This particular set of garments had been given to him by a town widow and there was a dreadful irony in that right now. He was wearing the clothes of a dead man.

Usher pulled a hipflask from his pocket. "What did you do with my hundred dollars?"

"Gave it to the doc; reckoned I owed him for his time and care."

Usher took a sip from his flask. "You're a saint son, truly, and it pains me to see you like this. You would have been a real asset to my organisation if you hadn't gone talking to Ben Carter..."

Cort snorted. "Ben wasn't lying."

"I didn't say he was."

Cort gazed at Usher, curious. "What kind of asset did you figure me for? A priest who'd sell confessions for cash? A guard who'd enjoy extorting money with menaces? You sure as hell misjudged me, don't you think?"

Usher was nodding, smiling. "I'm big enough to admit I was wrong. I thought a man who'd made a career out of killing and robbery could never change his ways. You're just too damned holy, Cort, and God will thank you for your devotion soon enough."

The words unnerved Cort but he wasn't about to let on. He'd faced death before, dozens of times, but it had usually been in gunfights where he'd stood a better than even chance of winning. There was no winning this fight though. "You're going to kill me?"

Usher took another sip of liquor. "It's bad enough Ben Carter spilling his guts about the finer points of my administration, and he'll pay for that soon enough, but now I hear the whole town's rallying behind you, Cort. Two nights ago I would have sworn you were nothing more than a thorn in their side. Hell, I even took steps to prove it."

Something clicked in Cort's head, something he hadn't wanted to believe before, and he was furious. "Those men I shot were working for _you_? _You_ let me kill them just to prove a fucking point?"

Usher looked thoughtful. "It was a little more than that. They weren't supposed to try and shoot you but I'm glad they did. You were impressive, Cort, I was glad to see that killer instinct was still strong..."

"I was defending myself, you stupid son of a bitch." Cort wanted to punch Henry Usher and he renewed his fight with the rope. Usher ignored him.

"… But you surely disappointed me tonight. I thought you cared about the church enough to serve justice on a thief like Ben Carter. You were supposed to hand him over, son."

Cort stared at him, stunned. The man's delusion was frightening and he resented just how badly Usher continued to misjudge his character. He hoped to God nobody else saw him that way.

"The church doesn't make the law, and I don't like your ideas on justice much. All that power and money's screwed with your brains, I reckon; when did you decide it was God's will to take life without even trying a man?"

He gave the rope another hard yank, thinking about what he'd do to Henry Usher if he could only get free.

"You should quit struggling like that, Marshal. You're hurting yourself."

Cort glanced up, saw blood running down his arms but he was too angry to care. "You'd better kill me Usher, and damned fast, because I'm going to tell everybody in the territory about you and your goddamn ministry."

Usher stroked his chin, he seemed amused. "If we're coming down to simple threats, what's to stop me telling _everybody in the territory_ about Cortez Thompson? Who, incidentally, is still wanted for robbery in more than a dozen towns. I reckon some folks would be real interested to know he's keeping law in Redemption and I reckon the US Marshal would be more interested than most."

Cort froze, blinking at him in disbelief. He hadn't heard that name in years, hadn't used it in longer. How the hell did he find out? Usher nodded smugly.

"You left a trail boy, and it's easy enough to follow when you've got the resources. My ministry is coming to town, _Cortez_, whether Redemption likes it or not. Some businessmen I know figure this to be a prime piece of territory and with you gone, I think the townsfolk will listen to reason."

Cort shook his head. "You're wrong."

"I don't think so."

Usher crossed to the nearest window and peered through it. Rain was lashing the glass and the thunder was getting loud again. The storm didn't seem to want to leave Redemption and Cort figured it was God's way of telling him his time was up. There would be no last minute reprieve tonight, and nobody around to watch him die. He wondered how they'd do it. Hang him right here the Marshal's office probably and he wished they'd get on with it. He was tired of talking, tired of hurting. He tried to remember Psalm 23 but the words of the prayer wouldn't come.

Usher went to the street door and stuck his head outside. A moment later the man who'd busted his ribs came in, shaking water from his hat and pulling a familiar bottle from his pocket. Cort eyed it warily, not wanting that stuff in his face again. Usher noticed his expression.

"You don't like it? I'm real interested to see how this works on a person."

Now he was a convenient subject for Usher to experiment on. Cort should have been angry but he was too tired to feel anything except resignation. He had no choice in anything that happened to him anymore, and it was easier to just accept that. Usher seemed fascinated by the bottle though.

"They call it Ether, Cort, and I hear it's most effective at putting folks to sleep. Beats clubbing them round the head, wouldn't you say? And it doesn't leave any marks."

Cort could see how something like this would benefit Usher's activities. "You seem to like your killings dramatic, Usher; you might find this one disappointing."

Usher flashed him an odd kind of smile. "Shit boy, this won't kill you." He turned to his companion. "Use more this time, we need him quiet for twenty minutes at least."

The man nodded and moved behind him, beyond his range of vision. Cort tried to twist round and see what was happening but something slammed into his right kidney and he gasped with agony. A cloth was pulled tight over his mouth and, for the second time in an evening, he blacked out.


	12. Chapter 11

Ben Carter swore with frustration. He couldn't get anywhere near the Marshal's office without being seen by the four men guarding it and they'd positioned themselves astutely; one on each corner of the building, shotguns ready, all approaches covered. One had just gone inside but that didn't help him much. Whatever they were doing to Cort, there was nothing he could do to help and it was driving him insane.

He was laying under the porch of the grain store opposite the office and he'd been here for what felt like eternity. It was dark enough that he wouldn't be seen, it sheltered him from the rain, but he was cold and rivulets of water were running off from the street and he could feel a puddle forming beneath him. Earlier he'd watched three of the gang drag Cort inside and he'd begun creeping up, planning to sneak a look through one of the windows, but when they'd all suddenly come outside again he'd been taken by surprise and only just managed to crawl under here without getting spotted. Now he was stuck until they decided to move.

Abruptly he got his wish. The door opened, somebody stuck their head out and spoke to the man keeping guard on the porch. Ben recognised him as Jack Bellows and he had blood all over his face. Ben grinned – it seemed like Cort had managed to inflict some kind of damage in there. Bellows signalled his colleagues at the rear of the building and they all trooped inside. Ben saw his chance; he wriggled from his hiding place and dashed across the street, his legs stiff from lying still for so long, He crept down the side of the office, pulling up below one of the dimly lit windows. It was too high to see through and he squinted around for something to stand on. His saw a dark shape and his hand came into contact with something wooden and solid; it felt like a crate and he gently pulled it closer, got up on top and cautiously raised his head a few inches. What he saw made his guts churn.

They'd tied Cort to a ceiling rafter near the lockup and he was hanging limply, clearly unconscious. He'd been awake and struggling at some point though; his arms were bloody and Ben rubbed at his own wrists, smarting and raw from his experience of tight ropes earlier. There were five men gathered around Cort and, with a chill, Ben recognised Henry Usher. It had been six months since he'd last seen the bastard, but Usher hadn't changed a bit. He was talking, gesticulating and then Jack Bellows went over to the cell and cut the rope attached to its bars. Cort dropped like a stone but two others caught him as he fell then dragged him towards the street door. The others followed and Usher blew out a candle, pitching the room into total darkness.

Ben climbed down from the crate and scuttled to the rear end of the office. The horse he'd seen earlier was still there and he guessed that's where the men were headed. He felt exposed just waiting around in the alley so he shimmied into the space below the back porch of the building next door. There was a little more room to manoeuvre here and he wriggled around until he had a clear view. As he'd predicted, the gang appeared moments later and threw Cort across the horse's saddle. They tied him securely then unhitched the animal and set off at a brisk pace, heading east.

Ben was pretty sure they were going to the cemetery and he cursed as he remembered his horse was tethered a quarter of a mile away in the same direction. He had to get ahead of them, needed to be at the cemetery well in advance if he stood any chance of taking them on. The rain was hammering down now, the thunder more frequent. The storm was getting blown back towards Redemption and he took a chance, praying the weather would hide him and he could get to his horse before the lightening started back up in earnest. He bolted south, running hard for a few hundred yards before turning east, moving in a wide arc around Usher's party, fear and adrenalin spurring him onwards. He kept running, even when his lungs started burning and his legs turned to lead, and finally he spotted the rocky outcrop.

His horse whinnied softly as he approached and eyed him reproachfully; she hadn't enjoyed standing in the rain. Ben mounted up and urged her into a gallop; she wanted to run and they covered the mile or so to the cemetery in a few minutes. Ben looked around for somewhere to tether her, where she wouldn't be obvious. He spotted a clump of dried out old gorse, not far from the grave-digger's shack and staked her to a root behind it. It just about concealed her though it was so damned dark he might as well have hid her in plain sight.

As if to contradict him, lightening forked down from the sky, illuminating the cemetery. Ben caught sight of the open grave outside the shack and, with a shock, remembered the dead man inside it. If Usher and his crew saw him down there they'd realise somebody was onto them. He raced to the hovel, pushed his way inside and glanced around. The place was watertight which was surprising, given its ramshackle appearance, and though the fire had burned down to mostly embers, it afforded a little light. There was a stack of dry wood in there, blankets and a pot of beans on the floor, a bottle of hooch, a couple of shotguns and then Ben spotted what he needed – six shovels stacked against the wall. He wondered why a solitary grave-digger would need so many, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He grabbed one and then, on impulse, threw a couple of logs on the fire. This way it might look like the occupant had gone out for a piss and wasn't lying dead in a hole twenty feet away.

Reluctantly he stepped out into the rain and over to the grave. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness and he could just about see the dead man lying at the bottom in a puddle of rainwater. There was a heap of earth next to the hole and he spent ten minutes franticly shovelling it on top of the corpse. It wasn't a perfect job by any means but it hid the evidence well enough. He returned the shovel to the shack and then squatted in the doorway, enjoying the heat of the fire on his back, watching as successive lightening strikes lit the area. They were getting more frequent and Ben's heart was hammering as he waited for the foot party to arrive. Finally he saw them, skirting the edge of the graveyard and heading his way. Ben scooted out quickly, closing the rickety door behind him, and took cover behind a nearby tomb. Three of the men led the horse behind the shack while Henry Usher and Jack Bellows went inside. They came out a moment later, shouting for their comrade who wouldn't be responding any time soon, and Ben noticed that each was carrying a couple of shovels. He frowned and drew his gun. This smelled bad.

The storm was right overhead and the lightening frequent enough for him to get a pretty good view of proceedings. They didn't suspect foul play, not yet anyway, because they just stood in the doorway talking. Their companions arrived presently, dragging Cort between them; he was conscious and struggling, but stood no chance of escape. Usher spoke to him but the rain and thunder was deafening; Ben was only ten feet away but couldn't hear any of it. The words had an impact on Cort though; all the fight suddenly left him, his shoulders slumped and he let his captors lead him to the open pit. They pushed him to his knees at the edge and he bowed his head like he was praying. Ben pulled back the hammer of his Remington, ready to move, but it suddenly occurred to him that none of the gang were holding weapons. Instead, Usher and Bellows were handing them shovels. Ben couldn't figure it – weren't they going to shoot Cort and tip him into the grave? That's how it usually worked…

He realised this was a different scenario when Jack Bellows placed his boot between Cort's shoulders and shoved him forward. Cort fell headfirst into the hole and the rest of them went over to the dirt pile and began shovelling it on top of him. All except Henry Usher, he just stood with his hands folded, watching them work. Ben saw Cort try to scramble out, a look of terror on his face, and Bellows clouted him round the head with his spade, knocking him backwards. They all started shovelling again and it finally dawned on Ben what was happening. The fuckers were going to bury him alive!

Ben stood up and started shooting. He had a real advantage and he'd taken out two of them with clean head shots before the others even moved. He saw Henry Usher turn and bolt towards the shack but Bellows and the remaining gang member were drawing their pistols. Ben got off a round at Bellows, hitting him in the shoulder and knocking him down but he scrambled away, firing as he went, and the other man opened up too. Ben threw himself behind the tomb, hearing bullets thud into the stone, then it went quiet. He peered around the corner of the tomb and saw the last man running towards the horses. Ben's bullet struck him in the back and he hit the deck. He didn't get up. Seconds later two horses bolted from behind the shack; Jack Bellows and Henry Usher getting away. Ben sent his remaining shells into the night after them but he doubted either was close to being on target.

He reloaded his gun and approached the grave warily, eyeing the fallen men but none of them were moving. He peered down and saw Cort sprawled on his face, covered in a layer of mud.

"Cort? Can you hear me?"

Cort didn't move. Ben threw himself down on his belly and stuck his head into the hole. He shouted at the top of his voice.

"Say something! Make some kind of noise. You're scaring the shit out of me!"

Finally Cort stirred and lifted his head. His words drifted upwards. "This grave seems to be occupied!"

Ben barked out a laugh, which was mostly down to relief and Cort pushed himself up from the dirt, away from the dead man below him. He was moving slowly, carefully but finally he was on his feet and staring up. A flash of lightening illuminated his face. He was covered in mud but the torrential rain was washing it away in streaks and below the dirt he was white as a ghost. There was blood seeping through the bandage on his head and his expression was blank, his eyes glassy. Ben wasn't even sure he knew him.

"It's me, it's Ben. Give me your hand and I'll pull you out."

He had to repeat the command several times before Cort registered it. Eventually he raised his arms and Ben grabbed him and pulled with all his strength. Cort grunted and cursed on the way up but finally he was out, on his knees, clutching at his chest and breathing hard.

"Shit man, what did they do to you?"

"Bust my ribs." Cort stood up carefully and winced, "Used some kind of drug to knock me out, you know the rest." He rubbed at the grimy bandage on his head and squinted at Ben. "Am I bleeding?"

Ben nodded. "A little, mostly your wrists though."

"Untie me, please!"

Ben led Cort into the shack. He was shaking badly and Ben was careful not to cut him as he sawed through the ropes with his pocket knife. Cort eased them gingerly from the raw wounds below and his breath whistled sharply though his teeth. Ben knew from experience exactly how painful this was.

"Sit by the fire and get warm, okay?" He grabbed the bottle of hooch and sniffed at it; there was whisky inside and he pressed it into Cort's hand. "I'll be back soon."

It took him a while to check on the men he'd shot, all of them dead, and he took their guns but decided to hold off looting the bodies properly until morning. Then he went to the gorse bush to get his horse. She was even less amused to see him this time and she tugged and resisted as he led her to the shelter and tethered her with Usher's four remaining horses. They were all carrying rifles and shotguns in saddle holsters and he took those too, grinning. The animals and weapons would fetch a good price and he hadn't even gone through the saddlebags yet!

He carried his stash to the door of the shack and shouldered his way inside, ready to gleefully share this good news with Cort, but the room was empty. He dropped the weapons, cursing, and swore even louder when he saw the assortment of wet, muddy clothes scattered around the floor.

He dashed outside and couldn't see a damned thing. The storm was moving away and he had to wait long moments for the lightening to come. In the few seconds of light he scanned the graveyard and saw a figure by the tomb he'd used to hide earlier. He strode over. Cort's face was upturned to the violent heavens and he was wearing nothing except bandages, drawers and a cross around his neck. He was drenched and shivering.

"What the hell are you doing, Cort?"

He grabbed Cort's arm and tried to lead him back to the shelter. Cort resisted and Ben pulled harder, fear making him rough and impatient. Tonight's experience might well have unhinged Cort's mind and he had no idea how to deal with a madman.

"Do you want to catch fever you crazy son of a bitch?"

Cort shook his hand away, glaring. "I'm not crazy, Ben! I'm trying to get clean!"

There was a certain logic there, though Cort hadn't been very successful in his efforts. His hair was full of mud and the rain was washing it in streaks down his face and body.

"You're as clean as you're gonna get tonight, buddy. Come inside where it's warm, you're shaking like a whipped dog."

Cort considered for a moment then nodded, following Ben into the shack. Ben pushed him down by the fire and offered him the whisky again.

"Drink. You need it."

Cort took a couple of slugs and Ben watched, his eyes drawn to the livid bruising across his ribs.

"You reckon they're broke?"

Cort glanced at him. "Huh?"

"Your ribs, are they broke?"

Cort shrugged. "Cracked I think. Still hurts like hell though."

Ben grabbed a couple of blankets from the floor and threw them around Cort's shoulders then picked up the guns he'd taken and stacked them against a wall. He couldn't help grinning at the richness of this bounty.

"Well Marshal, there's a definite upside to all this; you and me get to keep four of Usher's horses, these fine guns here and whatever else those men were carrying. Even split, wouldn't you say?"

Cort was frowning. "What happened to him?"

"Usher? He got away. Bastard ran faster than a jackrabbit when I started firing. Jack Bellows went with him but I know I shot that fucker."

Ben squatted by the fire and put the pot of beans in the embers to warm. "You hungry? These smell good."

Cort just gazed at him and Ben got twitchy. Just like the first time they'd met, he felt like he was being read from the inside out.

"What made you work for a man like Henry Usher?"

Ben shrugged. "I was young, stupid, didn't know any better... What made you ride with John Herod?"

"Pretty much the same thing."

Ben felt like he owed Cort a better explanation. "I didn't know what he was really like until I was in way too deep. I told you before, nobody gets to leave his ministry except when they're dead."

"But _you_ left, Ben, and you knew he'd come after you. Why did you do that?"

Ben felt the familiar guilt and regret bubble up inside him and he fought it down. He wasn't ready to share that sorry story with Cort. Not just yet; maybe not ever. "A man's entitled to try and change for the better, isn't he?"

"Surely." Cort was watching him intently now. "It took shooting a priest to show me the error of my ways. What changed _your_ mind, Ben?"

Ben picked up a stick and poked at the beans. "This ain't a confessional, Cort, and you ain't no priest. Pass me that bottle."

Cort handed it to him, still watching and Ben felt as though he already knew the truth, had somehow read his mind. He took a gulp of whisky. "You want some beans?"

Cort wouldn't leave it. "Why did you come back tonight?"

He snorted. "Because you wouldn't listen to sense. I told you Usher was coming, didn't I?"

Cort shook his head slightly. "That's not what I meant. Why did you come back to help _me_? Why did you risk your life to save mine?"

"Shit Cort, I don't know. What's with all these damned questions anyway?"

Cort scratched at the bandage on his head then suddenly pulled it off and stared at the blood which was soaked into it. "I never figured my life was worth much but you saved it, twice. I'm wondering why you'd do that."

Ben felt a little awkward and he took another gulp of whisky. "It's no big mystery. I like you and I think your life's worth a hell of a lot more than you figure." He felt his face redden slightly and he kept his head down, poking at the beans.

"Am I bleeding, Ben?"

He glanced up and Cort was smiling at him. He seemed touched by the words and Ben felt even more awkward. Blood was trickling from the two-day old cut on Cort's head. A couple of stitches had been knocked out by Jack Bellows' shovel but it didn't seem serious.

"You'll live, Marshal."

Cort mopped at the wound with the soggy bandage. "This isn't the end of it you know. Usher won't stay gone for long. Redemption's got something he wants and he needs you and me dead. More than ever now, I reckon."

Ben nodded. It was the truth. "Are you going to run?"

"The hell I am!" Cort's eyes were blazing. "I'm going to tell everybody in town about that bastard, what he tried to do tonight and we'll fight him together. If you want a part of that fight then be my guest. I still need a good deputy."

Ben could see the sense in uniting against Usher; would he really be fool enough to take on a whole town? Ben didn't know but he sure as hell wanted people around him right now, didn't want to get buried alive in the desert with no-one around to help. Cort seemed to sense his crumbling resolve and pressed on.

"We've got horses, Ben, we've got a whole damned arsenal sitting in that corner, we've got a jailhouse that's ready to use, we've got the support of the town…"

Ben interrupted. "We?"

Cort smiled. "The only thing I can't give you right now is a badge, and wages'll have to wait a while, but the townsfolk will provide anything you need. Food and such."

That reminded Ben he hadn't eaten since noon and the beans cooking under his nose were making his stomach growl. He looked around for something to eat with, found a spoon and dug in.

"If you want some of these you'd better holler."

Cort shook his head. "I kind of lost my appetite. I'll have some of that whisky though."

Cort watched him eat, taking an occasional pull from the bottle. The silence stretched out and he realised the Marshal was expecting some kind of decision. Ben thought about it hard while he finished the beans. Finally he put the pot down.

"Alright, I'll do it. I'll be your deputy but don't go trying to boss me around, you hear? And don't go thinking you know best all the time. You might be the town marshal but I saved your life so remember that whenever you get any damn fool ideas."

Cort smiled. "I owe you Ben. I'll never be able to repay you."

"Don't be so sure. Who knows what kind of hell Henry Usher's gonna bring down on us."

Something occurred to Ben, a thought which had crept into his mind, now and then, for six months. He usually ignored it, had never been in a position to act on it, but things might be different now…

"We don't just have to sit here, you know? There's another way, but you might not like it."

Cort gazed at him quizzically. "Try me. Right now I'm not feeling especially charitable towards Henry Usher."

"How about we take the fight to him, in Tucson? Make him hurt like he hurt you tonight? I reckon I know how to do it."


	13. Chapter 12

Cort woke to the smell of fresh coffee and meat cooking. It took him a while to figure out where he was – not in the hotel that was for sure – but when he opened his eyes and saw the rough thatch above him realisation hit home, along with some deeply unpleasant memories from last night. He rolled his head to the side and saw the fire blazing; there were a couple of skinned rabbits on spits hung across it and a beat-up coffee pot steaming in the embers. His stomach growled.

Ben Carter was squatting on the floor nearby, totally absorbed in counting a pile of money. The door was standing wide open and sunlight was streaming through. It was too hot, the sun high in the sky and he threw off his blankets, wondering how long he'd slept. Long enough for his bladder to be almost bursting, that was for sure, and he knew he'd have to get up soon. He wasn't looking forward to it – a night on the hard desert floor had not been conducive to his injuries; his ribs were hurting, his right kidney was aching, his wrists were stinging and he hadn't even moved yet. He took a deep breath and sat up, eyes screwed shut and cursing at the pain. Ben heard him.

"Get used to it. Ribs take weeks to heal."

Cort opened his eyes and scratched at his head, throbbing slightly from the whisky he'd drunk last night. His hair was sticky, full of grit and his skin was itchy and dry. When they got back to Redemption the first place he'd be visiting was the bathhouse. He squinted at Ben, still immersed in his money counting. "What time is it?"

"A little after eleven; I figured I'd let you sleep as long as you needed. If you're hungry the rabbits are nearly done, and I made some coffee."

"Where did all this stuff come from, Ben?"

Ben looked up, grinning. "Well I shot the meat but the rest is courtesy of Henry Usher. Those men of his were carrying close on two thousand dollars between them; their pocket watches, trinkets and clothes will fetch more, then there's the horses and all the stuff in their saddlebags…"

Cort got gingerly to his feet and looked at the pile of money. He couldn't see why Ben was so excited.

"That must be small change to a man sitting on thirty thousand dollars."

The grin vanished from Ben's face. "I'm flat broke, and I never had thirty thousand to start with."

A warning bell started ringing in Cort's head. Yesterday Ben had openly confessed to stealing that amount. He frowned, about to make a challenge, and Ben noticed his expression.

"Relax Marshal, I didn't lie to you. I stole thirty thousand but I only kept five for myself."

"Where's the rest?"

"With someone who needed it more." Something flashed in Ben's eyes. Cort had seen that same look last night, when Ben was trying to evade his questions. Regret or pain maybe? Whatever it was, Ben didn't want to talk about it. "Your clothes are outside. I laid 'em out to dry but they're covered in mud and shit. There's another set that might fit you better…"

Cort laughed. "Hell Ben, looks like I got myself a wife as well as a Deputy."

Ben scowled. "Don't get used to it Marshal, it's only 'cause you're hurt."

Cort went outside and looked around at the graveyard. It was so peaceful in the morning sunshine that it was hard to believe what happened here last night. The air smelled fresh and the usual terracotta and burnt umber shades of the desert were broken up by patches of brilliant green as wild grasses sprang up, nourished by the rain. Cort smiled, feeling the sun on his skin. It was good to be alive.

He went round the back of the shack to relieve himself and saw Ben had unsaddled the horses and staked them where they could nibble at the fresh new growth. Their places in the shelter were taken by four dead men, wearing only their union suits. Cort considered pissing right on top of them but thought better of it and turned away to empty his bladder. He noticed blood in his urine, which was a little unnerving, but he connected it to his abused kidney and reckoned it would clear up soon enough.

He found his clothes spread out on top of a tomb full of bullet holes; they were almost dry but also filthy – covered in blood and grime. There was another set there, obviously stripped from one of the corpses out back, and he felt the shirt and pants; they were slightly damp but made of good quality fabric and the tailoring looked expensive. Their last owner clearly had money to spend on such luxuries and he pulled them on quickly, along with a waistcoat that matched the pants. Ben was right, they were a good fit and he liked the colour. There was a coat which he didn't need right now so he bundled up all the garments, figuring he'd get his own clothes washed back in town, but glad he finally had a spare set!

As he turned towards the shack his eye was caught by the open grave nearby; the grave which had so nearly become his own. He walked over and gazed down at the empty pit, memories of last night surging into his mind. He remembered kneeling on this very spot, knowing he was going to die, trying to commend his soul to God while praying desperately for a miracle he was sure wouldn't come. He wasn't ready to go, wasn't prepared for it. Henry Usher had told him it wouldn't be clean or easy, and he was almost numb with terror.

But God _had_ answered his prayers, delivered a miracle in the form of Ben Carter and Cort knew, without doubt, that he'd been sent a message. His life had been spared for a reason; there was work for him to do and it all made sense when Ben mentioned going to Tucson and fighting Henry Usher head on. _That _was his mission! Usher was a stain on God's landscape, a blight on his church, and God wanted him brought to justice. Cort raised his head to the clear blue sky and gave thanks to the Lord for granting him life, promising him he'd succeed in this task. He was interrupted by Ben yelling at him.

"Food's ready. Come and get it."

Ben disappeared back inside the hut as he approached. He followed him in, dumped his armful of clothes on the floor then strapped on his gunbelt. He looked around for his Colt, saw it lying in the corner with the stash of weapons, holstered it, then pinned the Marshal's badge onto his new waistcoat.

Ben was watching him; grinning broadly, a part-eaten rabbit in one hand and a tin mug in the other. "You look almost presentable, Marshal, though your hair could pass for a haystack. You might even get a few gals looking your way now."

"To hell with girls, I've got a wife."

Ben scowled. "That ain't funny."

Cort poured himself some coffee and reached for the remaining rabbit. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten and his stomach felt hollow. He dug in, gnawing every shred of meat from the bones, wishing there was more when he was finished. Ben was peering over the rim of his mug.

"You remember that plan we cooked up last night?"

Cort wiped the grease from his fingers on his muddy shirt. Hell, it was getting washed anyway. "Are you saying that getting beat up, drugged and almost killed might have affected my mind?"

"Not exactly, but you sure drank some whisky."

Cort smiled. "I remember the conversation, Ben. It'll take some planning and some luck; and we don't have much time either, but… I'm in."

Ben looked relieved. "Well then, we've got exactly twenty four days to work it out. I reckon that's time enough."

Cort didn't want to talk about Tucson right now; there were more pressing matters at hand. He needed to get back to Redemption and call a meeting for one thing… He stood up and finished his coffee.

"Let's get back to town. I need a bath!"

Half an hour later they were loaded up and underway. They walked their horses slowly, leading the other three and Cort was pre-occupied with thoughts of Henry Usher and his plans for Redemption. He needed to find a way to instil upon the townsfolk just how dangerous the man was, not sure the evidence of his most recent injuries would do the job. They were so used to seeing him hurt and bleeding he doubted it would have much effect.

Ben suddenly started cursing and it yanked him out of his reverie. He glanced around and immediately saw what was bothering his deputy. They were approaching a large, rocky outcrop and there was a man's body slumped against it. His clothes were covered in blood but Cort immediately recognised Jack Bellows and his stomach lurched. The part of him that wasn't a priest, which was the biggest part these days, hoped to hell he was dead.

Ben was out of his saddle like a bullet and leaning over Bellows. Cort dismounted gingerly and reached them just as Ben stood up and took a few steps back, drawing his gun. Cort grabbed his arm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Ben shook his hand away. "The bastard's still alive, I'm putting him out of his misery."

"You're going to put your gun away and remember you're a lawman now. That's an order, deputy."

Ben scowled but did as he was told and Cort moved in to get a closer look. Bellows' breathing was shallow and his face looked grey. Both of his eyes were blackened, his nose swollen, but Cort couldn't find any remorse in himself for inflicting those injuries. All the blood was coming from a shoulder wound and there was way too much of it; Bellows must have been lying in the rain for hours. If blood loss didn't kill him then fever surely would, but Cort couldn't just leave him here to die. He glanced over at Ben.

"Help me get him on a horse. Let's see what the Doc makes of him."

Bellows didn't regain consciousness as they hauled him over a saddle and covered the last quarter of a mile at a fast canter. It was past noon as they entered town - lunchtime, and people were coming out onto their porches to eat. Cort knew they were causing a stir and there were plenty of questions shouted his way as they trotted down to the doctor's house, but he ignored them. They could wait until later.

Ben banged on Doc Wallace's door and the old man took an age to open it. He finally appeared, holding a tea cup, and Ben jerked his thumb at Bellows. "Someone to see you, Doc."

Cort saw the old man's gaze swivel in his direction, "More than one, I reckon. What the hell happened to you Marshal? You spend the night in a mud pit?"

Cort scowled. "Something like that."

A group of people had followed them along the street and Cort didn't see any reason to strain his aching body more than necessary. He motioned to a couple of the younger men.

"You boys help this man off his horse. He's dangerous so stay with him until I get back."

They were keen enough to help; they unslung Bellows and took him inside. The doctor was still standing at the door; Cort saw him eyeing the wounds on his head and wrists.

"You come back here quick now Cort, you hear?!"

He nodded then beckoned Ben over. "Get the horses settled then go up to the Marshal's office. Tell them we've got a prisoner and we need that cell finished today. Tell anybody you see there's a town meeting tonight, eight o'clock in the saloon, and tell the undertaker he's got customers at the cemetery."

Ben frowned. "What are _you_ going to do, Marshal?"

There was a clear challenge in the question and Cort reckoned it might take a while to adjust to this new relationship. Ben was a man used to looking after himself, doing as he pleased; suddenly he was taking orders from somebody no older, wiser or necessarily more experienced than himself. He looked Ben square in the eye.

"I'm going to speak to Horace at the saloon, then I'm going to visit the store keepers, then I'm going to take a bath. That okay with you, _deputy_?"

Ben scratched at his head, he seemed a little embarrassed. "I was just wondering…"

"So if you need me, you know where I'll be."

Cort headed towards the saloon. He figured the quickest way to spread word about the meeting was to tell Horace, and it was only polite to inform him that his bar was going to be hosting it. Some of the Bordello girls were out on their porch drinking beer and they all started giggling and whispering as he approached.

"Heading for the bathhouse honey? You mind some company?"

"I sure hope you're this dirty in the boudoir, Marshal!"

"No need to blush sugar, we don't bite. Unless you like that kind of thing…"

Cort's face was burning and he wished they'd stop taunting him like this, every damned time they saw him! Couldn't they see he wasn't interested? He was about to keep on walking when a thought struck him. The whores were as much a part of Redemption as anybody else; they lived and worked here, and they would surely suffer if Henry Usher's iron fist descended on the town. Reluctantly he went over and accepted the bottle of beer which was thrust towards him.

"Ladies, I'd like to inform you that, er.. there's a town meeting tonight in the saloon at, uh… eight o'clock. I'd appreciate it if you might um.. put business on hold for an hour and join us."

"You're a true gentleman, you know that Cort? Who else on this earth would think to invite creatures like us?" Cort blinked over at the woman who'd spoken and recognised her. It was the one called Kitty, the one he'd rejected a couple of days ago. Looking at her now he felt a familiar longing, a familiar stirring. She was young and pretty; Mexican-looking with dark skin, big eyes and full breasts. She saw him staring and ran a seductive tongue over her lips. "I'll be there, Marshal and maybe afterwards we'll have some fun?!"

One of the other whores seemed outraged by the words and she puffed herself up like a turkey. "You'll just wait in line, you little bitch!"

They all started yelling, arguing about who was going to have him first and Cort hurried away, embarrassed beyond belief. He couldn't understand why those women wanted him so bad but right now he felt like he surely wanted Kitty. Maybe it took a near-death experience to rekindle his lust? He tried to get the feeling under control – now was definitely not the time to get sidetracked by carnal desire.

He finished his beer and shovelled down a bowl of stew as he put Horace in the picture about the meeting, urged him to put out the word, then called into every store and invited their owners and patrons along. Folks were intrigued and a few of them commented on his appearance and latest injuries, wondering if there was a connection. Cort reckoned more people would turn up if there was some sense of mystery so he gave them no information except place and time.

Finally he headed to the bath house and spent half an hour in the warm water, which quickly turned the colour of mud. The heat helped ease the ache in his shoulders and back and he was a lot more relaxed as he walked back to the Doc's house. All he needed now was an afternoon nap and he might feel human again…

Jack Bellows was bandaged and still unconscious in the observation room when he returned. Ben was sitting in the parlour with a rifle across his lap. He looked alert and ready.

"The jailhouse is done, they're just moving in furniture and you can have the key tomorrow. Some of the boys were wondering how all that blood got on the floor but I figured you'd want to tell 'em tonight. I didn't know what to do with all the guns and shit so I stashed it in my room."

Cort nodded and Ben watched him, considering. "Anything else you need me to do, Marshal? I reckon I could use a bath too."

"Actually there is, Ben. You can use some of Henry Usher's money to settle my tab with Horace and Charlie Barton; they've kept me drunk for the best part of a month and I think they'd appreciate the cash. Then go get a bath, I'll be here a while..."

Right on cue Doc Wallace arrived, hauled him into the front room and ordered him to undress. The examination was thorough, not especially tender, and the Doc confirmed cracked ribs and an inflamed kidney. He cleaned and bandaged Cort's various wounds and he was frowning.

"This is getting to be a habit, son!"

"It's not happy about it either, doc."

The old man gazed at him. "Ben Carter told me what happened. I'll be at that meeting tonight and if any of those jackasses make things difficult, I'll tell 'em straight!"

Cort smiled. "I figure I'll need some help tonight."

"You should try and get some rest. You'll need your wits about you."

Cort shook his head. "Jack Bellows is dangerous, I can't leave you alone with him."

To his surprise the Doc started cackling. "You think I got to be this age without learning how to shoot a gun, sonny?" He crossed to his desk and pulled out a well-cared for Schofield. "I doubt that man will last the night, but if he makes some kind of miraculous recovery while you're gone, I'll shoot the fucker right between the eyes!" He jammed the pistol into his belt and grinned. "Now go get some rest. Doctor's orders."

Cort conceded defeat, relieved he didn't have to spend the next few hours sitting in the Doc's stuffy parlour. He headed over to the hotel, thinking how good a soft bed was going to feel, and went to collect his room key from the welcome desk. Mrs Linton, the hotel owner's wife, came to attend and shot him a severe look as she handed it over.

"Somebody here to see you, Marshal." She sounded even more prim and prudish than usual and she inclined her head sharply towards the window. Cort looked over and saw Kitty sitting in one of the over-stuffed armchairs, almost swamped by the size of it. She winked at him and Mrs Linton inhaled sharply. He turned back towards her.

"It's not what you think ma'am. I didn't invite her over here and if you'll give us a moment in private, I think I can take care of this."

She threw him a fierce glare then swept out of the room, her skirts rustling. Cort went over to the chair and gazed down at Kitty. She sure was pretty and for the second time in a few hours, he felt real desire. Again he tried to fight it down.

"Can I help you miss?"

"I was figuring I might be able to help _you_, Marshal."

"I don't need that kind of help right now."

She giggled and her eyes dropped to his crotch and the bulge in his pants. "You're not a very good liar."

He shook his head, feeling himself get red again. "I don't have any money."

She stood up and moved in close, pressing her ample bosom against his chest and running a hand through his damp hair. "This isn't business Marshal. I'm here on my own time and I surely ain't gonna charge for pleasure."

Cort was running out of options. She smelled so good it was almost intoxicating. "My ribs are busted, I can hardly move…"

She leaned forward and breathed into his face. "All you need to do is lay still, honey. I'll take care of everything else."

Suddenly her tongue was in his ear, her fingers brushing across his crotch and he growled with hunger. He was so horny he felt like he might erupt any second now. She felt his predicament and pulled back a step.

"I think you'd better show me to your room, Marshal."

He gazed at her for a moment, considering, but it was a lost cause. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs, taking them two at a time.


	14. Chapter 13

Ben Carter checked his pocket watch. It read 7.30 pm. Down the street he could see a steady stream of people pouring into the saloon. Word of the meeting had spread and it seemed like half the town was already inside. However, there was still no sign of the man who'd actually called them there. Ben knew Cort was up in his room, had been for over five hours, and he also knew the Marshal had not been alone for some of that time. He'd seen the whore named Kitty slink out of the hotel at around four, a satisfied expression on her face and she'd winked and grinned at him as she'd passed. Ben had grinned back. God knew Cort needed a little fun in his life, and if he was still asleep right now then it wasn't altogether surprising. Ben figured a wake up call might be in order.

He banged on Cort's door several times before he heard movement inside. Cort opened it with a sheet wrapped around himself, wearing nothing else except a scowl.

"Where's the damned fire?"

Ben gazed at him. "You mean the one you lit over at the saloon? It's full of folks, Cort, and pretty soon they'll be waiting on you."

"What time is it?"

"A little after seven thirty."

"Shit! I've got to get cleaned up. Wait for me."

Ben watched more people arrive at the saloon while Cort got ready. Some of them were forced to stand out on the porch and there were still more coming. The place was literally busting at the seams. Twenty minutes later Cort came downstairs; he looked agreeable in his new set of clothes and he'd combed his hair so the bandage around his head hardly showed. He was limping slightly and Ben grinned.

"Hope you didn't over-exert yourself up there, Marshal."

Cort's head whipped round and he glared.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Ben shrugged. "I saw Kitty come out. She looked real pleased about something."

Cort smiled and his face reddened a little. "You keep that piece of information private, you hear me, deputy?"

Ben laughed and they made their way over to the saloon. It was so jammed they soon realised they'd never get in, so they headed round to the back door and went through the kitchen, almost scaring the wits out of Horace when they appeared at the bar behind him. He was bright red and pouring with sweat, rushed off his feet, and Ben looked around the room. All the tables were taken and people were standing, shoulder to shoulder, in every available space, upstairs and downstairs, even on the staircase. It was hot, smoky and stuffy, the atmosphere alive, and the din of voices was so loud he wondered how Cort was going to make himself heard. He spotted Doc Wallace and Charlie Barton and then he saw Kitty, standing apart from a group of whores who were talking with their heads close together and throwing her dirty looks. Ben reckoned he knew what that was about and the thought made him chuckle.

"I didn't think the whole damned town would turn out."

Cort sounded nervous and Ben glanced at him. He was sipping at a bottle of beer and staring out into the crowd.

"You were a preacher; pretend it's a Sunday service."

Cort shook his head. "There's no believers here."

"Sure there are. Just tell 'em the truth, show 'em those marks on your body. They'll believe you."

The noise was beginning to subside as people realised Cort had arrived. Horace spoke to him.

"Reckon you should stand where people can see you, Marshal."

He jerked a thumb towards the top of the bar and Cort considered for a moment then pulled over a crate. He looked at Ben.

"You as well."

Ben's stomach twisted. He had no desire to get up in front of all these people. It went against all his instincts, not to mention six months trying to stay invisible. "You don't need me."

Cort grabbed his arm and boosted him onto the crate.

"I won't find a better time to introduce my deputy."

Ben climbed onto the bar reluctantly, hearing the noise die off even more as he reached down to help Cort. By the time he was up there, swearing softly and clutching his ribs, the room was quiet. Ben gazed around at the sea of faces, reading a multitude of expressions there: curiosity, trepidation, excitement, fear, suspicion, plain drunkenness… Cort cleared his throat.

"Uh, you're all wondering why I brought you here tonight, and I'll tell you soon enough, but first I want to introduce Ben Carter, he's the new deputy marshal of Redemption."

That got some definite approval. The saloon exploded into riotous applause, cheers and whistles, and it took an age to die down. When it was quiet again, Cort continued.

"Is anybody in this room unfamiliar with the name Henry Usher?"

There were rumblings and mutterings, a lot of head bobbing, but nobody spoke up. Cort continued.

"Then I'll take it that you all believe him to be a man of the church; a man dedicated to spreading God's word and bringing change to towns in the territory that need it most."

More rumblings, and they sounded approving. Ben figured what was coming next wouldn't go down well. Cort glanced across and he nodded his support.

"Last night, during the storm, Usher and four of his men jumped me. They beat me, drugged me and took me up to the cemetery. Then they tried to bury me… alive. Ben Carter saved me; if it wasn't for him I'd be lying in an unmarked grave right now and…"

He couldn't continue. The room erupted again but this time it sounded ugly. Everybody seemed to be shouting opinions and questions at once, not even prepared to listen to the explanation. Annoyed, Ben drew his gun and fired a shot into the ceiling. That got their attention.

"Just listen to the Marshal, you damned fools. If you've got questions then ask them after!"

Cort threw him a look of gratitude and ploughed on. "You're wondering why he'd do that and I'm trying to tell you. Usher wants Redemption; he smells money here, most likely from the railroad, and that's going to put us all in danger. Building a church and bringing God sounds just fine but it's only a front for how he really makes money, which is extortion, blackmail and murder when things don't go right. Anything you confess to his priests gets passed right along and if you've got something to hide and money to spare, you pass that along too or he goes public."

"Bullshit!"

The voice came from a corner of the room and Ben looked around sharply, trying to spot the man who'd called out.

"It ain't bullshit!" He recognised this voice as belonging to Charlie Barton, and he sounded irate. "There was plenty of us in this saloon yesterday when Usher's men came. They tried to take Ben away by force, like they was above the law, and they promised they'd come back."

"Maybe they were just giving a thief and liar what he deserved!"

That generated another buzz of speculation and Ben's heart sank. Word had sure got around fast. He heard Cort's voice, quiet in his ear.

"Reckon it's your turn, Ben."

Cort had known all along he'd need to tell his story, that's why he'd gotten him up on the bar. He signed and raised his voice to shout above the noise.

"It's true I stole money from Usher but it wasn't from church donations, it came from the rackets he's running. I knew how to do it because I used to work for him. I was one of the boys who'd go in and blackmail hardworking folks and their families, make their lives hell because somebody slipped up in the eyes of God and regretted it enough to confess to a priest. I ain't no believer but I can see the wrong in that."

"You stole from a robber? Still makes you a thief in my eyes." This time Ben spotted the owner of the voice, a burly, middle-aged man with a silver moustache and a fancy hat. He recognised the type as well; he'd spent plenty of time around them. Men with just enough money to make them pig-headed and arrogant, and he'd watched most of their money vanish into Usher's pockets. He grinned insolently.

"You look like somebody who'd regret his time in Usher's confessional, mister."

The man smoothed his moustache with a forefinger, cool as a cucumber. "I've got nothing to fear from God, or Henry Usher for that matter. Thirty thousand dollars is a hell of a bounty though, son, must've made you feel real special for a while."

Ben's face burned with indignation and the words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider.

"That money was for somebody else, you son of a bitch. It didn't mend all the lives torn apart by greed, but it helped make them a little easier."

"Sounds like a guilty conscience to me, boy!"

"Damned right! Usher's a curse on this territory and he's coming to Redemption. I know too much about his organisation and your Marshal knows it too. He'd like us both dead but if we spread the word, write letters and tell everybody we know about him, pretty soon there'll be too many of us to kill without folks noticing."

He looked at the man squarely, then took in the entire room.

"Redemption doesn't need Usher's church or any of his other crap,H

and that's a fact. All you'd be getting is another John Herod, though at least Herod was honest about his business in my opinion. If the town's right for the railroad's then it's gonna come anyway, and you already got a priest standing right here. He might not wear the collar but he's a man of God and I've seen him hurt bad for this town, for a bunch of cowards who don't even have the guts to believe what he says."

More rumblings and Ben thought the tide might be shifting. He shot a glance at Cort. "Show 'em your bruises."

Cort shook his head. Ben scowled at him and pressed on.

"Anybody remember that gunfight four nights ago? Those three men who tried to shoot the Marshal were working for Usher. That's his idea of playing fair."

He turned to Cort. "Show 'em goddammit. Don't lose the moment."

Cort shook his head more fiercely and Ben was about to grab him when Doc Wallace stepped into the fray.

"Anybody who don't remember how he suffered can talk to me. I've spent weeks patching him up and these past few days more than ever. We're both tired of it."

"It looks like a horse kicked him". That was a woman's talking and Ben knew who'd spoken before he met the eyes of Kitty, who had spots of colour blazing in her cheeks. He saw the other whores glaring at her but she was oblivious. "Whoever did that sure had a sick mind!"

A raucous, drunken voice yelled out. "Kicked by a horse then riding on a filly. I'm impressed, Marshal!"

There was a roar of laughter. Ben glanced over at Cort and saw him go red. He lowered his head, hanging his hair down so the whole town wouldn't see his shame. Ben snarled in his ear.

"Just fucking show 'em Cort, this ain't nothing to laugh about!"

Reluctantly Cort pulled up his shirt, exposing the livid bruising on his ribs. The room quietened down and some of the women gasped. Ben grabbed him and turned him round, so they could see the mark over his kidney. "He's pissing blood; that okay with you folks? You still think Henry Usher's a good bet? He sees the Marshal here as your leader, that's why he needs him dead. With him gone he figures this town will roll over and do anything he asks, and he's probably right. So you'd better decide right now if you can stand to back the only man who's gonna help you!"

That might have been the clincher and Cort seemed to sense it. He tucked his shirt into his pants and Ben saw a change in his composure and expression, suddenly got an inkling of what Cort the preacher might have been like. His eyes were blazing, his presence filled the room and he immediately had the full attention of everybody in it. Even the drunks shook themselves half awake and listened.

"I believe in Redemption enough to defend it from ugliness and evil, even if it means getting hurt or maybe even dying." Cort's voice was measured but utterly commanding. "But I can't fight Henry Usher alone and I won't. If you don't believe what I've told you and what I've shown you, if you're not prepared to help me then I don't see any reason to risk my life here. You need to make a decision, folks; you get behind me or take your chances with Henry Usher. I'll be over at the hotel; let me know when you decide."

He got down from the bar and Ben followed him out through the kitchen, leaving a cacophony of raised voices behind. He reckoned the decision might be some time coming but he was glad to get out of the hot, sweaty saloon and feel the cool evening air on his face. He wasn't sure what to make of the meeting, wasn't sure they'd succeeded in their mission, but Cort didn't seem bothered either way. He strolled over to the hotel, calmly helped himself to a beer from behind the bar, then sat in a chair away from the windows and put his feet up on a table. Ben grabbed a beer for himself and approached cautiously.

"You reckon we won 'em over?"

Cort glanced up at him, the picture of nonchalance. "Let's see what the breeze blows in."

"They'd be damned stupid not to see the truth of it."

Cort cocked an eyebrow. "Just what is the truth Ben? You've been skirting around it for days now."

"You don't need to know Marshal, and it won't change anything."

Cort took a sip of beer. "Like you said I don't wear a collar anymore, but I'll still hear your confession."

Ben shook his head. "I got no time for the church, and I don't believe there's anything above me except sky, so what's the use in confessing?"

Cort gazed at him, measuring him. "Then maybe you'll confide in a friend?"

Ben thought about it. He'd never told a living soul about the events which finally drove him out of Henry Usher's employment, but getting things out in the open might help ease the terrible burden of guilt. He trusted Cort, who'd willingly shared a terrible secret of his own, and knew he wouldn't be judgemental. Finally he sat down and took a bracing gulp of beer.

"You ever hear of Gregory Furnell?"

"No."

Ben wasn't surprised. Cort didn't seem to have heard of anybody important in the past three years.

"He was mayor of Bisbee – only a young feller but he had a lot of good ideas and people liked him. He had a pretty wife, two young kids and another on the way, and when Henry Usher wanted to bring his ministry to town, he welcomed him with open arms…."

He paused. Cort was looking like he already knew how this story panned out.

"Furnell had money, power and influence, and he always caught the eye of other ladies. I guess one night temptation got too much and he cheated, then he was fool enough to tell one of Usher's priests. You can guess the rest, I reckon."

Cort nodded his head. "How did you fit into it, Ben?"

"I lead the gang Usher put onto him, and we milked him dry. A night of fun with another woman don't sound like much, but he was a public figure and if would have finished his career. So every month we'd go down there and take his money, easy as you like, and every month I saw his wife and family hurting worse. They didn't know what was happening, and he never told 'em, but it was ripping them apart. One mistake wasn't worth all that suffering and then Furnell started running out of money and getting desperate. I told Usher to back off and leave 'em be but he wouldn't listen. The last time I went down there his wife was wearing black and holding a newborn baby. Furnell had put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. That family was left with nothing and Bisbee was robbed of a good mayor. The bastard they've got running things now is friends with Henry Usher, wouldn't you know?"

He took a gulp of beer. Cort was watching him intently, his eyes dark. "That's what changed your mind?"

Ben nodded. "On that day I knew I couldn't work for Usher anymore. I couldn't be a part of ripping any more lives apart. Stealing the money was easy. I just waited until we'd finished our work in that area, and there was plenty of folks to visit, then I rode off with it one night. I knew it would hurt the fucker bad, and I knew he'd come after me, but it was worth it. I broke into that widow's house and left most of it on her kitchen table, then I ran like hell."

A group of people sauntered into the bar and Ben glanced at them, wondering if the meeting was over. Cort didn't move and his eyes never left Ben's face.

"You never felt like telling her what that money was for?"

"Think about it Cort. If I'd put her in the picture about Henry Usher then I doubt she'd be alive today. Last I heard they'd moved to Colorado, which is far enough to be safe, I reckon."

More people were coming in and Cort's eyes flickered towards the bar where trade was picking up smartly. Ben wished he'd say something, make some kind of comment on what he'd just revealed. Finally he looked back over.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Ben. You played a part in that ugliness but you learned a lesson from it and you made amends as best you could. You tried to change, to make yourself better, and now you're helping me bring Henry Usher to justice; I don't think anybody would ask more of you."

Ben stared at him, remembering how Cort once shot a priest. "Do you ever stop feeling guilt?"

"Not in my experience. You just try and live with it; be the best person you can and hope that's enough." Cort stood up and smiled, put a hand on his shoulder. "Any time you need to talk I'll be ready to listen. Now we'd better go see what all these folks want."

They headed towards the bar just as Charlie Barton and a bunch of his cronies came in. He marched straight up to Cort and he was grinning. "Well Marshal, a few of them folks needed some persuading but we made 'em listen to sense and they're all behind you now. You just tell us what needs doing and I'll make sure it gets done."

Cort's face was impassive. "That's good to know. You can ask everybody to start spreading the word, but be careful about who they tell and how they say it. Tell 'em to keep their ears and eyes open too. I want to know about every new face in town and any news that comes with 'em. Tomorrow I'm moving up to the Marshal's office so I'll be easy enough to find."

Charlie nodded. "Now you've finally settled your tab Marshal, how about I buy you boys a drink? I reckon you did real well in that saloon tonight."

"Thanks, Charlie." Cort turned to Ben as Charlie elbowed his way towards the bar and suddenly he was grinning like fox. "That's a damned relief. I didn't think we'd had a hope of swinging everybody our way."

Ben was surprised at his words. Cort had seemed totally calm and composed, apparently unconcerned by the outcome of the meeting. "You were nervous?"

Cort laughed. "Nervous as hell."

Ben shook his head. "I'm never playing poker with you, Marshal!"

Charlie Barton brought some beers over and Ben got stuck in a conversation with a couple of the store keepers, but he was watching the room as they spoke. He noticed Doc Wallace come in and pull Cort aside. He spoke to him urgently and Cort frowned, then beckoned to Ben. He sauntered over.

"What's up?"

Cort was still frowning. "Jack Bellows has woken up, and he wants to talk."


	15. Chapter 14

Cort hefted the last of the Winchester rifles into the gun cupboard, locked it and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Outside the sun was low in the sky and the cell bars were casting long, striped shadows across the floor of the Marshal's office. He was exhausted but nowhere near done for the day. He perched on a chair behind the desk he'd helped haul up from the hotel earlier today, and surveyed his new domain, almost overwhelmed by the size of it. This was more space than he'd ever had to himself in his life and he wasn't sure what to do with it all. Other than firearms, which he now had in abundance, his scant possessions and clothes didn't even begin to fill the wardrobe and dresser in his bedroom, and though there was a stove in the kitchen out back, he currently had no utensils to cook with, not even a plate to eat from. The bookcase in the parlour next door was empty save for a dog-eared copy of the Bible, but at least the liquor cupboard was well stocked with beer and whisky.

He was restless and drifted into the parlour, grabbed himself a brew and sank into one of the tatty armchairs. All his meagre furnishings had been donated by the townsfolk, he suspected many were glad to be rid of these stuffy antiques, but he wasn't complaining. He'd used some of Henry Usher's money to buy booze and new sheets and blankets for the creaky old double bed he now owned; as an afterthought he'd picked up some well-worn bedding at a knock down price from the hotel owner. There were two cells in the jailhouse, each containing a pisspot and trestle bunk and he'd tossed a few blankets onto each bed. He'd be welcoming his first guest pretty soon and felt the prisoner should at least be warm during his incarceration, though he sure wasn't looking forward to having to cook for him…

Jack Bellows had been sitting up in bed when Cort visited him at the doctor's house after the meeting. His face was still badly bruised, his left arm in a sling, and he was bright-eyed, sweating and flushed. He was shaking, breathing heavily and Cort kept his distance, wary of catching fever, though the doctor assured him there was no sign of it. All Bellows' symptoms were down to something else entirely and as soon as he saw Cort he started talking in a low, mean voice. The man was so angry he'd have probably ripped the room apart if he'd been stronger, and all the rage was aimed squarely at Henry Usher. Cort could understand why; Bellows described, quite eloquently, how he'd given nearly five years of loyal service, the past six months of it as Usher's most trusted deputy. He'd bled for his boss, put his life on the line, broken the law, taken ridiculous risks, carried out every order, however distasteful, without question or hesitation… Then, when he'd got injured and suddenly proven too much of a burden, Usher had simply left him to bleed to death in a rainstorm. Not content with that, he'd taken his money, guns and horse, virtually eliminating any chance of survival, even if he lived through the night. Bellows had begged for mercy, to be shot dead but Usher had refused, not wanting that kind of death on his conscience.

"He's a coward and a hypocrite!" Bellows spat on the floor as he said it. "If it takes me the rest of my life, I'm going to make that fucker hurt!"

While Cort understood his sentiments, shared them to an extent, he felt it only fair to point out that Bellows was now his prisoner and wouldn't be leaving Redemption until the circuit judge arrived and tried him for the attempted murder of a US Marshal. Bellows hadn't seemed too bothered by the implication, even though he'd committed a hanging offence, he'd just gazed at Cort quizzically.

"He tried to kill you, Marshal, and I can't personally think of a worse way to die. Are you going to pretend you're big enough to turn the other cheek and let him get away with it?"

Cort had stared right back. "My plans for Henry Usher are none of your business, Bellows. Right now you should get some rest, and don't think about sneaking off in the night because I'll be right outside!"

He'd left Bellows scowling and cursed quietly as he closed the door to the little observation room, realising that he and Ben would now have to post guard. Ben hadn't been best pleased with that piece of news either but they'd had no choice but to take turns on the watch, each snatching only a few hours of sleep and as soon as the sun was up they'd left the Doctor and his Schofield on duty and relocated to the jailhouse, intent on getting it habitable before the end of the day. Ben had made a slow tour of the building, taking it all in, spending more time upstairs than was necessary and Cort had seen his eyes glinting as he'd come back down. He knew what was on Ben's mind: there were two good sized rooms up there, separated by a small washroom, and both were meant to have beds in them… Ben glanced over and spoke nonchalantly.

"Looks like you got a spare room up there, Cort, what you gonna use it for?"

He'd shrugged, equally nonchalant. "I thought maybe I'd turn it into a chapel. A room for personal prayer and such, you know?"

"Personal prayer?" Ben's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Cort fought hard to keep from smiling. If Ben had a mind to live here then he was damned well going to ask for the privilege…

Sudden bright light in his eyes jerked Cort from his exhausted reverie and he realised he'd been on the verge of falling asleep. The sun had dropped another couple of inches and now it was shining right through the parlour window. He took a sip of beer and sighed. He needed to chop some firewood before it got dark – they were well into December and the desert nights were downright freezing with a fair chance of snow. By the time he'd finished it was dusk, his ribs were hurting and the air was chill. He hauled at least a week's supply of wood inside and stacked it near the big burner in the corner of the office; powerful enough to heat the whole building once it got going. He lit a fire and stood for a while, enjoying the heat and another bottle of beer until he realised his stomach was growling and it must be dinnertime. Tomorrow he'd buy food and items necessary to cook it; right now the hotel restaurant was the only sensible option.

He spotted Ben as soon as he entered the dining room, sitting alone at a table in the corner and halfway through a beer and giant T-bone steak. He looked up as Cort slid into the seat opposite.

"Everything shipshape, Captain?"

Cort nodded. "All ready for our guest. How's he doing?"

Ben frowned. "He's doing too well for my liking and it ain't natural. Yesterday morning we find him nearly dead and now he's acting like a mad dog. The sooner he's behind bars the better."

Cort beckoned the waitress and ordered a steak for himself. He glanced at Ben as she departed; he looked as exhausted as Cort felt. "As soon as we're done here we'll fetch Jack Bellows up to the jailhouse, then we can get some sleep and the doc can put his feet up for the night."

Ben's expression grew shifty though he didn't speak. Cort's steak arrived and Ben watched in silence as he ate. He looked like he was screwing himself up to say something but couldn't quite find the words. Eventually Cort put down his knife and fork, impatient.

"Something on your mind?"

Ben picked up his beer and took a bracing gulp. "I was thinking…"

He didn't get any further, just shut up and stared. He seemed embarrassed and the silence stretched out. Cort sensed they could be here all night, caught up in this stalemate, and he was too tired to carry on playing.

"For God's sake, Ben, if you want the other bedroom just come out and say it, but you'll have to find your own bed!"

Ben looked at him under his fringe and his face was red.

"I got it all worked out. I can fetch a bed tomorrow but tonight I figure I'll just bunk in one of the cells. It'll be a damned sight quieter than this place and I'll be close enough to Bellows.."

He took a deep breath and eyed Cort for a long moment before ploughing on. "It's not like we'd be living together or anything queer is it? It makes sense don't it? So we can guard prisoners and shit like that…"

Cort couldn't help smiling. "Is that what's bothering you, Ben? That folks might think we're queer?"

Ben blushed even deeper. "I don't give a damn what folks think. Anybody who reckons I'm queer can kiss my arse!"

Cort fought the urge to laugh out loud and his eyes were watering as he struggled to find the right words. "If people in this town want to gossip then, uh, they've lost sight of the real fight, so…make sure you remind them and uh… I reckon we should go get Jack Bellows now."

Bellows was asleep when they arrived at the doctor's house, perhaps worn out by the day's ranting, and he was groggy and silent as they led him up to the jailhouse and locked him into the cell nearest the wood burner. He lay down on the bunk and immediately closed his eyes. Cort went into the parlour for a bottle of whisky and shivered in the sudden chill – clearly it would take time for the burner's heat to penetrate the whole building and right now the office was the only habitable room. He put the bottle on his desk, sat down and watched Ben loading more logs into the fire. Now the pressing domestic issues were taken care of, he could no longer avoid the biggest problem of all.

Cort had spent the past two days trying not to think about the plan he'd hatched with Ben in the gravedigger's shack. Every time he did so his stomach twisted and his heart began pounding like a steam locomotive. It had nothing to do with fear, doubt, cowardice or any other peg he might try to hang it on, it was just excitement, plain and simple. He'd always enjoyed the adrenaline rush he got before a fight or a robbery, relished the way it sharpened his senses and honed his reactions, but right now it made him feel only shame. He'd imagined he'd moved beyond base animal instinct, thought he'd reached a higher level of understanding and control, but his body was fighting his belief and betraying him at every turn.

"You're thinking about Tucson, right?"

Ben was sitting in the chair opposite him, reaching for the whisky. "You always get that look on your face, like there's a big gunfight going on inside. Got any glasses?"

Cort shook his head, startled at Ben's perception. Was he really so easy to read?

Ben shrugged. "I'll get us some tomorrow. Until then…" He took a gulp of liquor from the bottle then raised it in a scruffy salute. "… a successful pilgrimage to Tucson!"

Cort frowned, uneasy at Ben's enthusiasm. Not least because it mirrored the part of him he was trying to ignore. He crossed to the wood burner and warmed his hands, considering the enormity of their task.

"What's the date today?"

"Uh…" Ben considered for a long moment. "December 4th, I think…"

"So we've got, uh, three weeks to find us some dynamite, ride to Tucson, scope the bank, plan an escape route which doesn't lead every posse straight to Redemption, and we've got to do it under the noses of Usher and his followers, who'll be on the lookout for us."

Ben shrugged. "You've robbed banks before, lots of 'em. Just you and John Herod most of the time... This is gonna be easy, what with the whole town being in church and all."

Cort glowered at him, unnerved by his naivety. "Nothing's easy, Ben, so don't go getting any damn fool romantic notions. Last time I robbed a bank I got shot three times and barely made it out alive. Every minute of it's like walking on the edge of a knife; one slip and you're dead in a puddle of blood. It takes courage and concentration and unless you go in thinking you might die at any time, you won't get out again. Do you understand?"

"Spoken like a true professional!"

Cort whirled round to face the source of this new voice. It was Jack Bellows, standing at the cell bars and peering into the room. He scowled. "Go back to bed, Bellows, this isn't your business."

"If you want privacy then you shouldn't talk so loud, Marshal." Bellows' voice was a casual, patronising drawl. "Robbing Henry Usher's bank on Christmas Day is an ingenious plan, I'll hand that to you, but you might find it a waste of your time."

Ben jumped out of his chair and stumped across the office to face Bellows, clutching the bottle of whisky and looking him right in the eye.

"Who says we're robbing Usher, and who says it's Christmas Day?"

Bellows laughed. "I got a brain Ben Carter. Exactly three weeks from now is December 25th, and why would two lawmen be setting up a bank robbery unless it's for revenge? The only man in Tucson who's deserves retribution is Henry Usher and if that's what you're planning then I want in on it!"

He clamped his good fist around the cell bars and his knuckles whitened. "I owe that fucker good!"

Cort approached the cell. "Why's it a waste of time?"

"Give me a shot of that whisky and I'll tell you."

Ben glared at him. "Fuck you, Bellows!" He turned on his heel and stalked back towards the desk. Cort snagged the bottle from him as he passed, took a gulp himself then handed it to Bellows who nodded thanks and took a long draught, nearly coughing his guts up right after. Ben snorted his distaste and Cort waited until their prisoner had recovered his composure before asking again."

"Why's it a waste of time?"

Bellows' eyes were watering but his voice was steady enough. "I'm guessing your deputy came up with the scheme, huh? Unfortunately his information is out of date. Usher moved all his money from Tucson to Bisbee, right after thirty thousand dollars of it went missing in fact. He's nothing if not a cautious man!"

Ben whipped his head round. "You're lying!"

Bellows shrugged. "Why would I lie? I want to hurt Usher just as bad as you boys but there's an easier way to get his money than blowing up a safe. Hell, I can get it without even drawing a gun."

He took a tentative sip of liquor and Cort motioned for him to give the bottle back.

"Are you planning to share the information, Bellows, or are we supposed to guess?"

Bellows eyed him for a moment, considering, then appeared to make a decision.

"For five months I was Henry Usher's deputy and he trusted me with his most intimate business dealings, the illegal ones at least. It was part of my job to make regular deposits to a bank in Bisbee. The money came from Usher's collection gangs but the manager believes I'm the successful owner of a real estate company. Right now Usher thinks I'm dead and I reckon he'll be focussed on sending an army to Redemption. He wants this town bad, and he wants you boys even worse, so while he's preoccupied we make a counter-strike."

Cort nodded his understanding. "While Usher's eye is fixed on Redemption we ride over to Bisbee. Instead of a deposit, you make a withdrawal, right?"

Bellows smiled. "No flies on you, Marshal! The only drawback, of course, is that I'm currently behind bars and you seem intent on making me stand trial!"

Ben came back over and he seemed irate. "Why should we believe anything you say? How do we know this isn't some trap you and Usher have rigged? Maybe that army of his is waiting for us in Bisbee!"

Cort had to admit it was possible, and something else occurred to him. "This isn't a get rich quick scheme, Bellows. Our only plan for Usher's money is to give it back to the people he stole from."

Bellows smirked. "I'd expect nothing less from a reformed outlaw and a slippery thief!"

Cort scowled at the sarcasm and Ben positively bristled. The smirk widened.

"No offence, boys. All I want is to see Usher hurting, and taking his money will hurt real bad. If you need to know where to send it, I'll provide the names of everybody who's fallen foul of his ministry."

Ben took a step closer to the bars. "Prove it, Bellows. Name me twenty men right now!"

Bellows promptly rattled off a long list of names. Cort didn't recognise any of them but Ben was nodding.

"I know most of them. There's a few I'm not familiar with but I figure they'll be new customers."

"That they are." Bellows retreated to his bunk and sat down. "Business has been brisk since you took your leave, Ben." His eyes locked onto Cort.

"You think on it a while, Marshal. I can help you with this, but not from inside a cage."

Cort went back to his chair. He propped his feet up on the edge of the desk and considered. His mind was whirling and not just because of the lawman's dilemma he now faced. It was still conceivable that Bellows was lying, telling him what he wanted to hear in order to get free, but the list of names was tangible and the emotions he'd witnessed in the doctor's office were more than genuine. Every instinct was telling him Bellows was on the level. Eventually he called over to the cell.

"How much money's in that bank account?"

Bellows' voice drifted out into the room. "I don't rightly recall, Marshal. Maybe some whisky will lubricate my brain!"

With a sigh Cort walked to the cell and shoved the bottle through the bars.

"You can keep it, but you'd better start remembering!"

Bellows grinned. "At the last count, four hundred thousand dollars."

Ben whistled.

"How long before Usher finds a new key holder?"

Bellows took a gulp of whisky. "I don't know for sure, but it'll take all kinds of documentation to change the name on that account. Usher's successful because he stays separate from the collection gangs, but this time his caution might work against him…"

Cort nodded and suddenly his mind was made up. He glanced over at Ben, who was watching him intently.

"Are you likely to get recognised in Bisbee?"

Ben shrugged. "Maybe. I used to run into some of the folks I collected from but they were too scared to say anything. I don't figure much has changed."

"What about you, Bellows?"

Bellows shook his head. "I never rode with the gangs."

"What about you, Cort?" Ben said it casually. "You robbed that bank before?"

He smiled. "There's a few banks in Bisbee, but I'm not wanted there."

Ben frowned at his deft avoidance of the question and Cort changed the subject quickly.

"We leave the day after tomorrow so start getting ready." He turned to stare at Bellows. "If you've been lying to me, and if you try to cross me, I'll shoot you dead!"

Bellows took a swig from the bottle. "I wouldn't do that Marshal. Right now I'm the best weapon you've got."


	16. Chapter 15

Ben shivered in the freezing wind and pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat closer about his neck. He was glad he'd invested in the garment before they left Redemption because the snow had started not long after they'd set out. It had been quite pleasant to begin with; riding through the gently falling flakes and watching the rugged landscape slowly turn white. Last night they'd camped in a cave and drank whisky around a good fire but this morning the wind had picked up, rising steadily throughout the day until now they were fighting their way through a near blizzard. The light was beginning to fail and dusk was approaching. The unusually inclement weather had hindered their progress but Ben knew Bisbee wasn't far off and he was on the alert for any signs of life in the distance, though the snow whipping into his eyes made it difficult to see much at anything. He could just about make out the shapes of Cort and Jack Bellows ahead and he nudged his horse into a canter until he'd caught up. He didn't want to let Bellows out of his sight; he was manacled and unarmed but Ben didn't trust him. This whole scheme seemed just a little too convenient, and the turbulent weather was the perfect partner for a man with bigger plans up his sleeve than leading two hapless lawmen into a trap.

Cort's hat was pulled low over his face, he was hunched in his saddle and looked half frozen. Of them all, he was least acquainted with this kind of hard slog. While he was clearly no stranger to long distance riding in bad conditions, most of the past three years had seen a roof over his head and decent food in his belly. With that kind of comfort, it was never long before a man's body forgot the rigours of the road and grew a little soft. He hadn't once opened his mouth to complain however, and he wouldn't have gotten any sympathy if he had.

Once they'd agreed on their plan for Bisbee, Ben and Bellows petitioned to leave right away but Cort insisted they stay in Redemption an extra day, as he'd originally intended. He wanted to tell the townsfolk, personally, that he'd be gone awhile, wanted to be sure they were prepared should Henry Usher decide to invade. They'd put around the story of how they were taking Jack Bellows to Contention, to await the prison train for Yuma, but Ben didn't honestly believe Usher would be coming anytime soon. He'd want to lick his wounds awhile and dream up a scheme which didn't involve bloody gun battles on the streets of Redemption. He was a subtle man and would certainly take more care next time he visited, but Cort's caution was understandable, if frustrating.

Ben had used the time to pick up some things for their journey, move his stuff into the jailhouse and buy the essential items Cort seemed oblivious about – cutlery, crockery, candles, oil, lamps, towels and cooking utensils for starters. He'd even purchased another sheepskin coat, knowing the marshal had nothing in his wardrobe fit for a long ride in cold weather, and Cort had grinned as he'd taken it, making another quip about gaining a wife as well as a deputy. That joke was getting real old and next time he cracked it, he was looking to get a fist in his face. Ben scowled at the memory.

"Something up ahead!"

Jack Bellows had pulled up his horse and was squinting into the wind, both manacled hands raised to shield his eyes. Nobody would have guessed he was carrying a serious injury – he'd ridden hardest and fastest of them all, always trying to lead the pack and showing no signs of weariness, pain or cold. He was one tough customer but it only made Ben more determined to keep him in check. He stopped his horse nearby.

"Bisbee?"

"I reckon." Bellows glanced at Cort. "How about taking these chains off? Riding into town as your prisoner won't help our chances any."

Cort shook his head. "Not yet."

Bellows grinned. "Don't you trust me, marshal?"

"About as far as I can throw you!"

Ben was glad to hear it. Many of Cort's decisions seemed based on gut instinct and occasionally they mis-led him. At least he had the measure of Jack Bellows though – a smart, slippery thug who'd shoot them both as soon as look at them. Half an hour later it was almost dark and the outlying buildings of Bisbee came into view, grey and hazy in the relentless snow. Cort halted the party while he unlocked Bellows' cuffs.

"The bank'll be closed now. Where's a good place to stay overnight? Somewhere we won't attract attention?"

Bellows considered for a moment. "The Blue Angel, I reckon."

Ben remembered the place; a small but comfortable hotel near the edge of town, used almost exclusively by travellers wishing to keep a low profile and move on quickly. The owner and staff were discreet, well paid for their diplomacy, and the food and whisky were decent enough. Cort cocked an eyebrow at him and he nodded his agreement.

"It's on the same street as the bank!"

It took them a while to find the building – the whole town looked different under cover of snow and visibility was getting worse as the storm progressed. They took a few wrong turns and Cort sat up straight as they approached a large chapel with a snow-laden cross on the roof, its windows spilling golden lamplight out across the snow. He swivelled round in his saddle to keep looking as they passed and Ben hoped he wasn't getting any ideas about paying a visit. That was Henry Usher's church!

Eventually they located the Blue Angel and led their horses into the warmth of its stable. Ben listened to the muffled howl of the wind outside, relieved not to be spending a second night in the storm. It was barely 6pm and he was looking forward to a good supper and peaceful evening by the fire with a few bottles of beer.

The hotel bar was busier than he'd expected, however, given the conditions outside. There were a few bedraggled fellows minding their business in the corners, small groups of men conducting low conversations in the shadows, but the room was dominated by a rowdy group sitting around a large table, drinking whisky and playing stud. Ben counted eight of them and judging by the volume of their voices, not to mention the pile of money in the centre of the table, they'd been here some time. The hotel owner didn't seem best pleased and kept glancing across at them as he checked in his newest arrivals. He gave all three of them a brief but astute appraisal, sizing them up, and he seemed convinced by their sodden appearance.

"Long ride, fellers?"

Cort's hands were shaking so bad he nearly dropped the money he'd pulled from his pocket to pay for their room. The man smiled.

"Hot bath's a dollar extra."

Cort nodded and fumbled another bill onto the pile. There was a sudden burst of raucous laughter from the big table and they all turned to look. The group of men seemed to be having a good time and nothing more, but the proprietor was frowning. Cort glanced at him.

"Trouble?"

The man shrugged. "They're townsfolk, not our usual clientele. They came in a couple of hours back, when the snow got bad, and they seem intent on staying."

He slapped a key down onto the desk. "Suite three. Your bath'll be ready shortly."

They'd opted for a suite of rooms in order to watch over Bellows. What they actually got was one bedroom containing two bunks and a living area, warmed by a fire in a grate, populated by a couple of armchairs and a shabby but solid-looking davenport. Its wooden arms were stout enough to run a chain through and Ben exchanged a glance with Cort. This would be Bellows' bed for the night and he scowled as he saw them looking, reading their intent.

"Do you boys honestly think I'm gonna sneak off in the middle of a snowstorm?"

Cort struggled out of his soggy coat. "I wouldn't put anything past you, Bellows, and I think you can stand to be chained up for another night. I'm going downstairs to get that bath, Ben'll keep you company while I'm away."

He was gone a long time, long enough for Ben to tire of Bellows' constant whining about their lack of trust and consideration for an injured man. He only shut up when Ben threatened to chain him to the davenport and leave him there without supper. Afterwards they sat by the fire in stony silence and Ben fought to keep his eyelids from drooping, aware that Bellows was watching him intently. He cursed Cort, figuring he'd fallen asleep in the bath, and was on the verge of taking Bellows downstairs to wake him when he finally reappeared, damp-haired and flushed from the heat of the water.

"Go get a bath if you need one, Ben."

He shook his head. Right now all he wanted was a hot meal and a beer. Bellows took it as an opportunity though.

"Ben and myself are used to life on the road, marshal. We can handle a little cold weather without freezing up like a drinking spout!"

Cort just smiled at him. "Let's see how well you handle a night on that davenport with no blankets. One more remark and you'll be sleeping on an empty stomach too!"

Bellows looked murderous but he shut up and stayed quiet throughout dinner. They ate stew and bread and softly discussed their arrangements for the morning. They intended to hit the bank early, Ben and Bellows going inside for the money while Cort posted a lookout from the hotel, which was only a few doors down. Afterwards they'd ride hard for Redemption. If the bad weather continued, however, the plan might need to be adjusted and Ben didn't fancy the prospect of more time spent guarding Bellows while pretending to be his travelling companion.

After dinner they went into the bar and sat by the fire, as far away as possible from the rowdy group of stud players, who seemed to be getting louder by the minute. Ben sipped his beer and tried to relax, though the relentless noise made it difficult. A potboy appeared and started collecting empty glasses. He was little more than 20; tall, well-built but shifty looking. His hair was long, a dirty-blonde colour and he kept staring at them from under his fringe, as though they wouldn't notice. It was making Ben jumpy. Did he recognise one of them? All of them? The more he thought on it the twitchier he got and eventually he stood up, intent on getting the truth. He felt Cort's hand on his sleeve, pulling him back into his chair.

"Relax Ben, he's just curious."

"Bullshit". Jack Bellows' eyes were on the kid as he loaded spent glasses onto the bar. "He reckons he knows us. He'll be sneaking off to the Marshal's office pretty soon to claim the reward."

Cort gazed at him, bemused. "That'll be difficult when none of us are actually wanted."

Ben watched the kid turn away from the bar. He kept his head down as he approached the unruly gamblers and gathered up their glasses. He worked his way round the big table, finishing up by the loudest member of the group; a portly, red-faced man in an ugly suit with a big pile of money in front of him. He shot another look across at them as he reached for the man's glass and this time Ben was ready. He met the kid's furtive glance squarely and jerked his chin up, inviting conflict. The kid's eyes widened in surprise and he stumbled, dropping the whole tray of dirty glasses into the fat man's lap. There was a roar of laughter and the man leapt to his feet with a nimbleness which belied his size. He face was even redder now, burning with humiliation and he caught the kid across the face with a heavy backhand blow, knocking him to the floor.

"Clumsy little turd. That'll teach you to walk around with your eyes shut!"

He kicked the kid in the guts and the boy curled up tight, trying to protect himself as more blows rained down. The other members of the group were laughing and jeering, encouraging their comrade and Ben was caught in a dilemma. Should he stop the beating, at risk of drawing attention to them all, or turn a blind eye like everybody else and let this depraved scene play out…? Bellows seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, sitting back with a big grin on his face, but Cort was out of his seat and striding across the room. He grabbed the man as he aimed another kick, spun him around and punched him in the face. The impact sent him reeling and he landed hard on the floor, wheezing; all the breath and bluster knocked out of him.

The mood of his friends changed abruptly from malicious humour to indignant outrage. They all started shouting and a couple of them stood up, reaching for their guns. The Colt was already in Cort's hand, though, and he took a step closer to the table.

"If any of you drunk fuckers want a fight then let's go, right now!"

They conceded grudgingly, sat down slowly and Ben didn't like the look on their faces; there were seven of them and Cort only had six bullets. He got reluctantly to his feet and crossed to the table, letting his hand hover near the butt of his Remington. He eyed them all calmly.

"Don't be getting any ideas about out-gunning us. We're stone-cold sober and I promise we're faster than all of you put together!"

The man on the floor clambered to his feet and lurched towards Cort until his imposing gut was the only thing separating them.

"I'm an important name in this town and you just humiliated me!"

Cort gave him a contemptuous smile. "Laying into an unarmed kid? You did a pretty good job of humiliating yourself!"

The kid in question was kneeling on the floor and watching the exchange intently. His eyes were mostly on Cort, occasionally flicking across to Ben, and he looked confused. The fat man, for his part, was showing no signs of backing down.

"How about you and me settle this in the street?"

Cort laughed and Ben knew it wasn't for show. He felt like laughing himself. He raised his voice to get the man's attention.

"You must have some kind of death wish, mister. If you want to fight in the middle of a snowstorm, against the fastest gun in this territory, then I'll be happy to watch you die!"

The fat man didn't seem remotely troubled by his words.

"I wasn't born yesterday, son. I know when a man's bigging up his buddy."

To Ben's surprise, Cort holstered his gun.

"I don't accept that challenge; not tonight. I won't be responsible for shooting a drunk arsehole with a big mouth and I sure as hell won't freeze my butt off in that street to do it. If you've still got a beef when you wake up tomorrow then come find me and we'll settle it then. Sober you might even stand a chance."

The fat man squinted into Cort's eyes.

""What's your name?"

"You don't need my name and I sure as hell don't need yours."

They stared at each other for a long time and Ben saw one of the group reach furtively for his gun. He drew his Remington and aimed it at the man's head.

"I wouldn't do that, mister. In fact, I think all of you fellers should get out of here while you still can."

That seemed to break the stalemate. The fat man stomped over to his chair, pulled his coat from the back of it and glared at Cort.

"This ain't over yet. I'll see you tomorrow."

Cort nodded. "I'll be here."

The man motioned to his companions and they gathered up their money, put on their coats and departed. A blast of freezing air gusted through the bar as the street door opened and closed, and the room felt big and quiet without them in it. The other occupants immediately went back to their drinking and muted conversation and Ben returned to his seat by the fire, relieved to find that Bellows hadn't moved. Cort sat down between them a few moments later, reached for his beer and took a sip. Bellows was scowling.

"Nice work boys, now the whole damned town's gonna know we're here."

Cort glanced at him. "Who were they?"

Bellows shrugged. "How the hell would I know?"

The hotel owner was approaching and it seemed like he'd overheard.

"That was Tyrone Williams and his friends. Thanks for getting rid of 'em."

Cort shook his head. "I reckon he'll be back tomorrow."

The owner frowned. "He's an arsehole and nobody pays any mind to the shit that comes from his mouth. Nobody will care much if you shoot him dead either. In fact we'll probably celebrate."

Bellows looked up, suddenly attentive to the conversation.

"Tyrone Williams? Seems I've heard that name before…"

The owner smiled without much humour. "He works for the mayor of this town and figures it makes him a big man, though Mayor Anderson is an even bigger arsehole! Gregory Furnell wasn't even cold in his grave when he arrived from nowhere, and now he's leading this town into all kinds of trouble. Most everybody hates him..."

Ben tensed at the mention of Furnell and Cort shook his head slightly, urging caution. He noticed the potboy disappear through a door beside the bar and tried to shake off his renewed irritation. That fucker was the cause of all tonight's trouble, and he'd also put their plan at risk. He got up to follow, ready to confront him.

"Where you going?" Cort's voice was casual was his eyes were watchful.

"For a piss. That okay with you?"

Cort had no choice in the matter because the hotel owner immediately claimed the vacated chair and continued his discourse on the unpopularity of Bisbee's mayor. Ben approached the door and opened it softly, finding himself in a large, dimly-lit store room. It was full of beer barrels and he glanced around cautiously. The kid was nowhere to be seen but he had to be in here since there was no other exit. A slight scuffing noise alerted him and he peered over a nearby barrel. The kid was hunched on the floor, clutching his ribs, breathing hard and cursing under his breath. Ben couldn't help feeling a twang of pity, and most of his irritation evaporated on the spot. He stepped around the barrel and the kid jerked his head up, his expression changing from surprise to suspicion as he got slowly to his feet.

"You come in here to try and hurt me some more? Where nobody can see?"

Ben was totally bewildered by this reaction. "Why do you think I'm gonna hurt you?"

"Because that's how bastards like you work!" The kid's eyes narrowed. "Do you remember me?"

Ben shook his head. "Should I?"

Now it was the kid's turn to look bemused and every nerve in Ben's body was jangling. He'd been the subject of this boy's interest out in the bar, and he needed to know why. The kid seemed angry, jumpy as hell, and he kept his voice low and calm, trying to keep the situation under control.

"How do you know me?"

The kid just glared. Ben took a step closer but he wasn't Hjhintimidated and he didn't budge; he spoke up eventually though.

"You came by my brother's house one Thanksgiving. I was visiting him and you sure spoiled a nice party!"

Ben's stomach twisted. He'd spoiled a lot of nice parties during his time as a collector. Holidays were always a good time to catch victims off guard and Henry Usher pushed that advantage wherever possible. But he had absolutely no recollection of the young man before him now, and that bothered him.

"What's your name?"

The kid shook his head. "It don't matter."

"Give me your name, damn it."

The kid looked him right in the eye, stood up straight and squared his shoulders. All the blood drained from his face and his expression turned ugly. Ben suddenly realised they weren't much different in height or build and if his young adversary knew how to use his fists, there might be trouble. He drew his Remington and the kid sneered.

"Big man hiding behind a gun!"

Ben was getting angry. "All I want is your name, and you'd better let me have it before I lose my patience."

The kid spat on the floor and it splashed Ben's boot.

"Tobias Furnell, you son of a bitch. You killed my brother and if you're brave enough to put that gun away, I'll make you pay for it!"


	17. Chapter 16

Cort had stopped listening to the hotel owner, but he was still droning about town affairs and politics. He couldn't figure out why the man thought they needed to know about the current state of unrest in Bisbee, which sounded ready to blow at any moment, but Jack Bellows was taking an interest and asking questions now and then. This wasn't their concern though; with luck they'd be gone tomorrow and Cort had more pressing things on his mind.

His attention was focussed on the door through which Ben had disappeared. His deputy had followed the kid and while he wasn't happy about it, he realised somebody needed to talk to him, find out why he'd been staring all night. Maybe Ben wasn't the best person to do it though – he had a quick temper and it sometimes made him rash. Cort had a bad feeling and was listening for a certain set of sounds, hoping to God a gunshot wouldn't be among them.

Suddenly he heard what he'd been dreading; banging and shouting from inside the room, followed by an almighty crash. He leapt to his feet, raced across the bar and cannoned through the door, momentarily disoriented by the dimness of the room he'd entered. He tried to pull up but the floor was slippery and he kept on going, colliding solidly with a barrel. The room reeked of beer and he could hear grunting, cursing and thudding nearby. He saw Jack Bellows and the hotel owner entering cautiously as he moved towards the noise and discovered the combatants.

They were on the floor, wrestling in a frothing puddle of beer beside a ruptured and overturned barrel. Ben's Remington was lying on another barrel and Cort tossed it to the hotel owner before turning his attention to the fight. Ben and the kid were both bleeding, soaked in booze, covered in sawdust and under different circumstances it would have been damned funny. The kid threw himself on top of Ben, who jacked up his knee and slammed him in the kidney. The kid yelled and raised his fist, ready to lay a punch in Ben's face and Cort saw an opportunity. He hooked his forearm around the kid's neck and dragged him backwards, getting an elbow in his injured ribs for his trouble. He doubled up, cursing as pain incapacitated him and watched helplessly as the kid strode back towards Ben, who was back on his feet and beckoning him forward.

Just as they were about to re-engage, Jack Bellows got between them. He was a few inches taller than both and although a lean, stringy build, he demonstrated formidable strength. He caught the kid in a wrestler's hold and hauled him clear of Ben, throwing him to the floor and placing a boot on his neck to keep him there. Ben made to follow but the hotel owner stepped up, the Remington in his hand. Ben froze, breathing hard, his eyes blazing and he looked about to do something foolish. Cort struggled upright and stood right in front of him, trying to keep calm though every nerve in his body was jangling.

"If you want to keep fighting you'll have to get past me."

He wasn't much of a match for his enraged deputy right now, but that wasn't the point. Ben stared at him for long moments, considering, and suddenly he backed off.

"I got no fight with you."

Cort turned to look at the kid. He was struggling like hell but Bellows' boot was firm across his windpipe and his face was turning purple.

"Let him breathe, Bellows!"

Bellows grudgingly removed his foot and the kid sat up, scowling and rubbing his throat. The hotel owner glared at him.

"You'd better have a damned good reason for this. Fighting with guests ain't what you're paid for!"

The kid, in turn, glared at Ben. "I got business with him on account of my brother!"

Bellows laughed. "He shouldn't have sent a boy to do man's work."

The kid's head whipped round. "I'll kill you for that!"

"I'd like to see you try!"

Cort could see the situation getting out of hand again and he approached the owner.

"You should take him outside."

The man nodded and looked severely at the kid. "If you're gonna stand any chance of keeping this job, get out of here now!"

The kid thought about it for a moment then got to his feet. He marched out of the room, shooting an evil look at them all as he departed. The owner followed him out and the door closed softly. Cort turned to face Ben, who suddenly seemed unwilling to look at him. He was peering intently at something on the floor and the silence stretched out. It was broken by Bellows' sardonic drawl.

"Come now ladies, kiss and make up before we die of old age?"

Cort near enough snarled at him. "Stow it Bellows!"

Ben finally looked up. "I'm sorry… I guess I didn't behave much like a lawman but he challenged me and…"

He didn't sound sorry at all and Cort cut him short. "And you felt like you had to accept? You've been looking for a fight all night but I hoped you were big enough to handle it without using your fists!"

Ben stared at him incredulously. "Like you handled that fat bastard in the bar? Inviting him to a gunfight tomorrow was real big of you, real mature!"

This was going nowhere and Cort was getting annoyed. "I think you should clean up and cool off."

He made for the door and motioned for Bellows to get out too. They were almost there when Ben called after them.

"Before you get on your high horse you should know something. That kid is Tobias Furnell, and he thinks I killed his brother.

Cort turned and shot him a hard stare. "Well Ben, maybe you did!"

Ben recoiled like he'd been stung and Cort immediately regretted his words. It was a low blow, brought on my irritation and impatience and he opened his mouth to apologise. But Ben was stalking towards him, glowering, and he braced himself for another fight. Ben simply walked past him though, shouldering him hard as he did so.

"Damn you!" His voice was low and quiet. He sounded totally defeated. "Why'd you have to say that?"

He slammed the door as he left and Cort cursed.

Bellows was watching him, smiling. "That told him!"

Cort scowled. "Ben didn't kill Gregory Furnell. We all know who the real killer is."

Bellows shrugged. "Your boy there don't seem entirely sure."

Cort grabbed his arm and pushed him towards the door. "He's got a conscience, Bellows; something you'd know jack shit about!"

Bellows snorted disdainfully and went directly to his chair by the fire; Cort stayed by the bar to get another beer. The hotel owner served him after a long wait; Ben's Remington was stuck in his belt and Cort figured it was safest to leave it right there. He learned Ben was currently sitting in the laundry room, waiting for a bath and drinking whiskey. Cort sincerely hoped that didn't spell more trouble later on, but at least he hadn't done anything stupid like try to leave. The storm outside was still raging and if it continued, the whole town would be buried under snow come morning.

He rejoined Bellows and they sat in silence. The bar-room was quiet, mostly empty now and Cort listened to the howling wind, the cracking of the fire and tried to relax. Bellows seemed to have no problem in that department – he hitched another chair over, put his feet up and closed his eyes. Cort sipped at his beer and rubbed his aching ribs, pondering tonight's turn of events. So much for keeping a low profile! The only redeeming factor was the weather, which would slow the spread of gossip, but they needed to move fast tomorrow and get out of town as early as possible. He and Ben also needed to patch things up if they were to stand any hope of pulling off the robbery while keeping Bellows on a leash. Cort didn't feel he should be the one to apologise, though. If he'd spoken out of turn then Ben deserved it. After all, he'd been the one brawling on the floor like a bar-room drunk, all because some kid had called him chicken!

He heard boots on the wooden floor and looked up to see the kid in question trudging across the bar with a mop and bucket. His face was swollen and bruised but he'd cleaned up and changed his clothes. He saw Cort watching and nodded as he passed, throwing him a crooked smile. He disappeared into the store-room and Cort glanced at Bellows, who appeared to be asleep. He grabbed his beer, went to the bar and beckoned the hotel owner across.

"If that man by the fire moves to get up you bang on the store-room door, you hear? And keep that pistol close!"

The owner's eyes narrowed. "Are you gonna give my boy a hard time?"

Cort shook his head. "I'm going to talk, that's all."

The kid was busy with the mop as he stepped back into the dimness of the store-room and closed the door gently. Cleaning up all the spilled beer was one hell of a job and he was cursing steadily and creatively as he worked. Cort moved closer and the kid tensed then spun round, gripping the mop like a broadsword. Cort held up his hands in submission.

"I haven't come to fight."

The kid looked a little rueful and lowered the mop. "I thought it was your buddy coming back for some more."

He stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Tobias Furnell, you can call me Toby…"

Cort took it and shook. "I'm Cort.""

The kid nodded. "You're a decent feller, Cort. You stopped Tyrone Williams beating on me and I owe you for that, but I can't figure why you're riding with that other arsehole!"

Cort took a gulp of beer. "He might have acted like an arsehole tonight but he's a good man, and I owe him my life."

Toby scowled. "He killed my brother and he's gonna die." He shrugged. "Sorry, but that's the way it is."

Cort couldn't help smiling at his arrogance, but the overpowering smell of beer mixed with sawdust was making him feel queasy. He crossed to the opposite side of the room and hauled his arse up onto a beer barrel, wincing as his ribs took the strain.

"Before you do that, there's some things you should know."

Toby approached, watching him suspiciously. "Ain't nothing you can say to change my mind. I saw him at my brother's house one Thanksgiving. Afterwards Greg put me in the picture as to how he was getting blackmailed by a gang and your buddy was the leader. He made me promise not to tell anyone, Vivienne most of all, but when he died I swore I'd get even…"

Cort interrupted, not quite following. "Who's Vivienne?"

"Greg's wife…" Toby paused, frowning. "His widow now. I been working this shit hole for three months, keeping my mouth shut and ears open for something that might lead me to that fucker and then he just walks on in tonight. I reckon it's a gift from God!"

"God doesn't help killers and you'd know that if you went to church!" Cort was irritated. "How old are you anyway, eighteen?"

"Twenty two. How old are you, forty?" Toby scowled and he sounded affronted. "I go to church regular, if it's any of your business, but I got no time for Henry Usher and he's the only religion in Bisbee now."

Cort's heart started hammering in his chest. "Henry Usher?"

Toby nodded. "He runs the church and I seen that preacher of his talking with some of the dirt bags who use this hotel. I'd be a damned fool to confess anything to him."

He was close to figuring it out, but Cort wasn't about to hand over the final piece of the puzzle. He didn't wasn't this kid involved in the fight with Usher. Nonetheless, he was curious.

"What were you doing before you decided to become a killer, Toby?"

Toby glared. "I ain't killed nobody… yet!"

Cort smiled, sensing the bravado. "Ben's one of the fastest draws I've seen, you reckon you can take him?"

Toby's eyes widened. "Faster than you? I never seen anyone pull a gun that quick!"

Cort took a gulp of beer. "Why are you working here? You seem smart and I reckon you could do a lot better for yourself."

"I already told you why." Toby hauled himself onto the barrel adjacent to Cort. "Six months ago I was at college, studying medicine. I was in my final year, always reckoned one day I'd be a doctor until Greg died..." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll go back someday, once things are settled."

Cort was intrigued. "How did a college kid learn to fight like a ranch hand?"

Toby grinned. "Boxing club. There was a shooting club too. The tutors were always down on me for spending more time with a handgun than studying, but I figure frontier medicine needs some backup, right?" He laughed then paused, eyeing Cort. "How'd you learn to draw like that?"

"It sure wasn't in college."

The kid gazed at him quizzically "You ask a lot of questions, mister, but you don't answer none. What are you doing in Bisbee?"

Cort shook his head. "That's not your concern."

Toby's voice sounded deliberately nonchalant. "Must be important business… Urgent enough to risk freezing to death in a snowstorm and all…?"

The conversation was sliding into dangerous territory and Cort struggled to get it back on track.

"Where's your brother's wife?"

Toby was briefly thrown by the sudden shift of topic, but he recovered quickly and smiled insolently. "That's not your concern."

Cort continued, keeping his voice casual. "It must have been real hard on her, losing her husband with three kids to look out for?"

Toby scowled. "What do you reckon, genius?"

Cort looked him right in the eye. "I reckon twenty five thousand dollars helped ease their suffering!"

Toby leapt down from the barrel, his face burning and his fists clenched. "Who the fuck are you? How do you know about that? Only family knows that!"

Cort jumped off his own barrel and took a step away, ready to pull his gun should the kid decide to attack.

"You ever wonder where that money came from? Which good Samaritan decided to help your family out of a hole?"

He spoke quickly, hoping his words were getting through.

"Ben Carter gave her the money. That's the same Ben you've been threatening to kill all night, by the way. He was part of the blackmail gang, and he'll always regret it, but he made amends as best he could. He was hunted for six months because of it; by the man who really killed your brother."

Toby moved closer, looking mutinous. "Who is he?"

Cort gazed at him steadily. "He's dangerous. Last week he came by my town with a posse. They beat me, drugged me and tried to bury me alive. You figure you can handle a man like that?"

"I reckon so." Toby stuck out his chin defiantly but he seemed a little calmer now. "Why'd he do that to you? What did you do to him?"

"I learned the truth."

Toby grinned. "And now you've come to Bisbee to settle the score?" His intuition was spot on but his emotions shifted and spun on the edge of a coin. It was making Cort nervous.

"It's that fat fucker Tyrone Williams, right?" He seemed to be thinking aloud. "Or maybe his boss? Mayor Anderson's a corrupt piece of shit and how about that preacher? He's a shifty son of a bitch…"

Cort had a sudden, unpleasant vision of Tobias Furnell stalking the streets of Bisbee and gunning down any man who looked at him funny.

"It's nobody in Bisbee, so don't be getting any dumb ideas."

Toby's eyes narrowed. "If you know who killed my brother then I got a right to know too. I reckon you came to Bisbee with some plan to hurt him, and I want in on it."

Cort shook his head. "You're just a kid. I won't put you in that kind of danger."

"I'm not a kid, goddammit!" Toby was near enough yelling. "My brother was twenty eight years old when he died, by your reckoning that makes him a kid too, but he was the best fucking mayor Bisbee ever had!"

He was glaring, breathing hard. "I reckon you've killed some people, mister. A man don't get that fast with a gun by accident. How old were you when you took your first?"

Cort didn't want to dwell on the memory of that first murder, but the kid deserved an answer.

"I was twenty years old."

Toby nodded. He didn't seem surprised. "Why did you kill him?"

"I don't remember."

He laughed incredulously. "So you shot a man over something so important you forgot, but I'm too young to hunt down the bastard who killed my own flesh and blood?"

Cort found himself in something of a predicament. The kid had a valid point but if he knew about Usher then Cort would need to keep him close, if only to keep him from doing something stupid. If he didn't tell, left Toby to his own speculation and suspicion, the consequences could be far worse…

The kid had some useful attributes: he was smart, knew about medicine and could use his fists and a gun. On the downside he had a big mouth, a quick temper and a major chip on his shoulder. Cort couldn't risk letting him in on the bank robbery, or talking about Henry Usher while they were still in Bisbee. That might well be signing his own death warrant and he searched for another solution.

"You got a horse, kid... um… Toby? You got guns?"

Toby grinned. "Sure I do. I got a bay mare in the stable and a pair of Army Colts in my room. Can't wear 'em while I'm working but they're oiled and loaded."

Cort finally reached a decision, and hoped to God he was doing the right thing. "Get out of town at dawn, if the snow's let up. Ride for Redemption and I'll meet you there. "

The kid's eyes were gleaming. "Redemption? John Herod's old town? Did you know him?"

"I knew him." He gazed at Toby. "But John Herod's dead and Redemption's a different town now. When you get there, wait in the jailhouse and keep you mouth shut. I'll only be a few hours behind."

"Jailhouse?" Cort could almost see the cogs ticking over in Toby's mind. "Does that make you some kind of lawman?"

Cort finished his beer and felt like he needed a couple more.

"I've got business in Bisbee and the less people who know it the better. When we get back to Redemption I'll tell you who killed your brother and what I plan to do with him. I'll even let you be a part of it so long as you keep your mouth shut and do as you're told. Reckon you can do that?"

Toby gazed at him for a long time, turning it over. Finally he nodded.

"I reckon, but you'd better not cross me!"

He thrust out his hand. Cort gripped it and they shook in the same moment the door to the store-room burst open. Ben Carter was standing there, wearing clean clothes and an enormous scowl. He had a bottle of whisky in one hand, his Remington in the other.

"What the fuck's going on here?"


	18. Chapter 17

Cort squinted through the hotel window and into the street. The storm had blown itself out just after dawn and the sun had risen in a clear sky, turning the streets of Bisbee into a glittering white spectacle. The snow had drifted in the gale and was piled high against buildings, almost up to the eaves in some cases and the hotel owner had struggled to get his front door open earlier. Now he was outside with a shovel, bundled against the cold, clearing a proper path towards the road so paying customers might enter conveniently.

The main thoroughfare was passable; there had been enough traffic over the past couple of hours to pack down the snow in a narrow central tract, and he watched Ben and Jack Bellows follow it up to the bank and disappear inside. Bellows was holding an official looking satchel and Ben was carrying a Winchester rifle in addition to his Remington, masquerading as a guard. Cort checked his pocket watch; it was a little after eleven.

They'd decided against arriving at the bank just as it opened, figuring it might seem a little eager given the prevailing conditions. While no robbery was happening in the accepted sense of the word, old instincts died hard and their horses were loaded up and saddled in the stable, ready for a quick getaway should one be necessary. Cort didn't much fancy the idea of plunging down Bisbee's steep, narrow streets in the snow, but there was no real reason it should be necessary. They weren't technically doing anything wrong, not so far as the bank was concerned anyway. Bellows was a legitimate account holder in their eyes, and it was his prerogative to remove all his money if he pleased. He was planning to spin the manager a yarn about moving his business to another state and needing all that cash as start up collateral, and Ben was there to make sure he played fair, as well as providing backup should anything go wrong. They were likely to be in there a while so Cort refilled his mug with coffee. He was alone in the bar room and he sat in a chair which afforded him the best view up the street towards the bank.

Last night had not gone smoothly in any sense and when Ben Carter had burst through the store-room door, looking drunk and murderous, it seemed things were about to get a whole lot worse. Cort had reached for his gun, ready to draw if Ben decided to take proper aim with his Remington, and he knew Ben had noticed. To his surprise, though, Tobias Furnell had taken control of the situation, diffusing it before any further damage could be done. He'd marched right up to Ben, stuck out his hand and apologised for acting like a jackass. When Ben hesitated, looking suspicious, Toby explained how Cort put him in the picture regarding his brother, and how he owed him an apology. Ben had been forced to holster the gun in order to shake and he'd paused, considering, then thrust his bottle of whisky at Toby, who accepted it. Ben's gaze travelled towards Cort and he seemed embarrassed.

"Reckon you should get an apology too. There's more than one jackass in this room tonight."

He stumped over, offering his hand and Cort shook it without hesitation, though suddenly doubted the wisdom of letting Ben and Toby ride together. They were a pair of hotheads, as likely to fight each other as anybody who posed a genuine threat, but he'd made a promise and Toby wouldn't take kindly to a change of heart. He searched for a way to give Ben the news diplomatically but eventually just spat it right out.

"Toby's riding with us. He's coming back to Redemption."

He'd expected resistance or argument, but Ben had simply grinned and turned to face the new recruit.

"You as good with a gun as you are with your fists, kid?"

Toby jerked his chin up defiantly but his eyes were mischievous. "First chance I get I'll show you, old man!"

Ben laughed. "Can't have no cub wearing a badge, but we need somebody to pick up round the office, wouldn't you say, Cort?"

Toby's eyes started gleaming and were suddenly focussed right on Cort. His heart sank. Why couldn't Ben keep his big mouth shut!

"I knew you were a lawman!" Toby took a swig from the bottle. "Sheriff of John Herod's old town, huh?"

"Marshal."

Toby grinned. "If I'm riding with you then I figure it makes me some kind of deputy."

Cort shook his head. "Ben's my deputy, I don't need any more."

Toby took a step closer. "Keeping law in a town like that must be tough as hell. I reckon the marshal of Redemption needs as much help as he can get!"

Cort swore under his breath. Why did the kid have to be so damned smart? He saw Ben open his mouth to say something and cut in before he could dig them deeper into the hole.

"There's some things he doesn't know yet, Ben, so keep quiet until we're home, okay?"

Fortunately Ben caught his drift and shut up and the three of them returned to the bar and shot the breeze for an hour or so, until Jack Bellows woke up and announced he wanted to go to bed. Cort chained him to the Davenport but didn't have the heart to carry out his threat of leaving him with no bedding. The living room was chilly and he'd thrown several logs on the fire and tossed Bellows some blankets. He'd nodded his gratitude and listened as Cort gave him a sketchy account of their dealings with Toby. Bellows didn't seem surprised when he learned of the latest addition to their party and just shrugged.

"He's looking for payback, just like all of us. Another gun can't hurt."

Cort had been awoken just before dawn by a persistent knocking on the door to their suite. He'd opened it to Toby who'd pointed out of the window. It was still snowing and he'd enquired what he should do. Groggy, cold and disoriented, Cort had told him to go back to bed and meet them downstairs at nine with his stuff. He was waiting when they trooped down a few hours later, wearing his guns and an eager grin. He'd joined them for breakfast, after tendering resignation to his boss, and then they'd all gone to the stable to ready their horses. Right now Cort hoped to God that Toby was obeying the single instruction he'd been given, which was to stay with the animals and keep watch. The kid had looked like he wanted to ask about a hundred questions, but he'd simply nodded and gone to stand by the stable door, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt.

Cort drained his coffee and considered another refill, or maybe a beer, then decided against either. Too much coffee made him jumpy and alcohol would dull his wits. He needed to stay alert and he scanned the street again, though there was nothing much happening out there. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time but barely five minutes had passed since he'd last looked and he sighed, slightly bored now.

Voices outside drew his attention back to the street and he cursed as he recognised the red-faced, portly form of Tyrone Williams. The hotel owner had stopped shovelling snow and was blocking his path. He seemed to be issuing some kind of warning but Williams was smiling, shaking his head and holding his hands out in submission. The owner eventually stepped aside and the fat man hauled his bulk up the steps and through the door. Cort shifted in his chair so he had clear access to his gun, but refrained from drawing just yet. He couldn't see if Williams was armed, since he was wearing a heavy fur coat, and it was just conceivable he'd come to talk rather than fight. Cort decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now, but every muscle in his body was rigid.

He heard boots in the hallway and Williams marched through the door. He scowled when he saw Cort and moved closer, rubbing at the bruise on his jaw. He looked and smelled like he was still drunk, and that made him doubly dangerous. Cort kicked his chair back a couple of feet so his gun was clearly visible.

"You come to talk or fight, Williams?"

The scowl deepened. "You got my name so how about I get yours? Or do I just call you arsehole?"

Cort gave him a dismissive glance. "State your business or get out. I got better things to do than trade insults with a drunk buffoon."

Williams' red face got even redder. "I'm an important man in this town and…"

Cort laughed. "You're lapdog to the most unpopular mayor in Bisbee's history. That makes you real special!"

The fat man looked as though he was about to have a fit and he lurched closer.

"You'll pay for that!"

Cort stood up and let his hand hover near his Colt. "So we're fighting then?"

"Not with bullets." Williams struggled out of his coat and tossed it to the ground. He was wearing a fancy looking gun beneath it but he unbuckled his belt and threw that down too. He raised his fists. "Man to man!"

Cort considered for a moment. Williams wasn't going to let the matter rest until he'd got some kind of satisfaction and it was better to knock him out here, in the privacy of an empty room, than shoot him publicly in the street. Williams was almost twice his size but it was all fat; so long as it didn't come to wrestling on the floor, Cort was confident he could take him. He took off his gun belt slowly, laid it on the table and Williams smiled, backing towards the centre of the big room and motioning him forward. He raised his fists again, like a boxer and Cort followed, watching him carefully, planning his moves in advance, hoping to duck in under his guard and hit him hard in the face. Williams was still backing up, towards the double doors which separated the bar from the dining room, and Cort wondered if he'd changed his mind and wanted a food fight instead. He soon got an answer.

Williams suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs. "Now, boys!"

The doors burst open to reveal two men. It took Cort a moment to recognise them as poker players from last night, because all his attention was focussed on the shotguns aimed at him. He glanced over his shoulder to where his own gun was laying, yards away. He'd never get to it in time and he cursed his own foolishness. Williams had not only lured him into a trap, but disarmed him in the process.

"Hands behind your head, boy". Williams sounded ecstatic. "Don't be getting any smart ideas."

Cort obliged; he didn't have much choice in the matter. The fat man approached, flanked by his companions whose aim never wavered, whose fingers never left their triggers. Cort's stomach twisted. This was going to be ugly.

"What's your plan, Williams? Gun me down in cold blood? I reckon your buddy the mayor'll have something to say about that."

Williams lashed out and his fist collided solidly with Cort's mouth. The impact split his lip and knocked him backwards, fetching up hard against a corner of the fireplace. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it trickling down his chin and the three men kept advancing. Williams was smirking now.

"I won't kill you, arsehole, but I'm gonna make you hurt!"

A shotgun butt hammered into his stomach and the pain forced him to his knees, gagging and winded, fighting the urge to throw up while trying to brace himself against the next blow, which was surely coming. He squinted up. Williams was still grinning but his friends had lowered their guns to the floor and were leaning on them, taking in the sport and clearly enjoying it.

"Get up, arsehole, if you think you can!"

Cort saw a flash of movement by the dining room doors as Williams' boot slammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling. A second later the room exploded into chaos. There were two gunshots, a lot of shouting and finally a single voice, calling his name. The voice was familiar, it sounded urgent and he pushed himself to his knees to see what was happening. The scene confronting him was hardly what he expected.

The shotguns were strewn about the floor, their owners were also on the ground, bleeding, and Tobias Furnell was standing by the bar with both his guns trained on the fat man. Williams was glowering and Toby glanced over at Cort, a wild look in his eye.

"You want me to shoot this fat bastard?"

Cort struggled to his feet. "Just keep your guns on him."

His left shoulder was throbbing, his stomach was churning and he wiped blood from his mouth as he limped over to his gun belt and strapped it on. He drew his Colt and held it on Williams, nodding at Toby.

"I got him covered. Gather up those shotguns, will you?"

Toby obliged, keeping one of his guns trained on the fallen men, and Cort saw the hotel owner enter the room cautiously, holding a rifle. The last thing they needed right now was more gunfire but the man was looking at him, concerned.

"I knew that fat fucker was lying to me. Guess I should have listened to my instincts."

Williams scowled at him. "You gotta live in this town, boy, so watch your mouth."

The hotel owner eyed him calmly. "Don't try and make life hard for me, Williams. Your friend the mayor has made enemies of near enough everyone in Bisbee. Don't count on him being around too much longer."

Williams snorted but he looked shifty and some of the bluster seemed to leave him. The hotel owner looked at Cort again.

"You want something for your mouth?"

Cort wiped more blood off his chin. "Some ice should do it."

The man nodded. "We got that in abundance right now!"

He left the room as Toby approached with the shotguns. He dumped them on the bar then glanced over questioningly. Cort nodded towards the men on the floor.

"Search them and take any weapons you find. How bad are they hurt?"

Toby shrugged. "They'll survive."

He began searching them roughly and Cort watched. The kid was calm in a crisis, which was an asset, but he wondered how long it might last. The hotel owner came back and handed him a bag of ice, then stood behind the bar, still gripping his rifle. Cort pressed the ice to his mouth, willing the bleeding to stop but his most immediate concern was getting rid of Tyrone Williams. He looked directly at the fat man.

"Are we even now?"

"Like hell we are!" Williams spat on the floor then jerked a thumb towards the snowy street. "We're gonna settle things properly now. Outside!"

Cort's heart began pounding. This was exactly what he didn't want to hear.

"I'll beat you in a gunfight, Williams, I promise you that."

Williams snorted. "I heard it all before, son and it don't impress me."

Something occurred to him and his red face split into a cunning smile.

"Don't I deserve to know the name of the man who thinks he's gonna kill me?"

Cort considered it. Tyrone Williams was undoubtedly an arsehole, but he didn't want another death on his conscience. If the right name might help cool him off then it was worth a shot. He stepped up close and kept his voice low.

"Does Cortez Thompson ring any bells?"

Williams looked blank but it certainly rang a bell with Toby, who'd chosen that exact moment to come over, two additional handguns stuck into his belt. Cort saw his jaw drop open and he eyed him sternly and shook his head slightly, urging him to keep his mouth shut. Williams didn't seem to notice the exchange though, just pushed past them, picked up his gun belt and glared.

"I don't care what your name is, arsehole. You won't need it much longer!"

He stomped out of the room and Cort cursed softly. He glanced at the hotel owner.

"Lock these shotguns away. I don't need his buddies deciding to join in."

The man gathered them up, headed into the store room and Cort turned towards Toby, a little disturbed by the expression on his face. It seemed to be a mixture of excitement and wide-eyed hero worship. He'd have something to say about that presently, but right now Toby was the only backup he had.

"I need you to forget who you think I am and cover me out there, you understand? Are you calm enough to do that?"

Toby nodded emphatically. "You bet I am. I won't let you down."

Cort motioned towards his belt. "Give me one of those guns. I might need it."

Toby obliged and Cort checked the pistol was loaded before sticking it into his own belt. He levelled a final, cautionary gaze at the kid and then headed out of the room.

It was bitterly cold in the street, a chill wind gusting from the north, and he knew he'd have to do this quickly before his hands froze up. As he walked out into the middle of the road he caught sight of the bank and remembered, with a jolt, what he was really supposed to be doing here. He hoped Ben and Bellows were still in there, but had no way of knowing or finding out right now.

The impending prospect of a gunfight had worked its usual magic. People always knew when something ugly was about to go down, like some kind of invisible telegraph was blowing through town. Although the challenge had been issued only a few minutes ago, there was a fair sized crowd gathering, hunched up in bulky coats, their breath steaming in the icy air. Cort glanced at the bank again and watched a few customers spilling down its steps, not wanting to miss the action.

Williams' voice jerked his attention back to the street. He was speaking in a loud, pompous tone.

"Last night this arsehole insulted me and now he's gonna pay for it."

Cort heard a lot of sniggering from the crowd, and some outright laughter. From the look on his face Williams heard too, and wisely elected to say no more. He backed up until he was five yards away, then took his position.

Cort had no intention of shooting to kill, no matter how much Williams might deserve it. Every moral he tried to uphold told him it was wrong and the part of him that used to be a priest was screaming in horror at what he was about to do. But the grinding pain in his stomach and shoulder, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, reminded him that Tyrone Williams was not a man he could simply walk away from.

Williams' hand was poised over his pistol, but he didn't move. Cort watched him carefully, looking for the signals that indicated a man was about to draw. Usually it was some kind of twitch: of the eye, mouth or hand and Cort had always used it as his queue. That way he didn't betray himself to his opponent by doing the self same thing. Williams didn't play to form though, he just lunged for his weapon with no warning.

Like every gunfight he'd ever experienced, Cort felt like the world suddenly slowed down and he had way more time than he needed to act. The Colt was clear of its holster before Williams got anywhere near his own gun and he fired, hitting the fat man in the right leg. The impact of the bullet bowled him over and he hit the deck hard, sliding along a few feet in the ice.

Cort's heart was banging, adrenalin was pulsing through his veins and his head was pounding with the heady, well-remembered elation of a win. He could hear the crowd cheering and clapping as he holstered his gun, approached Williams and stood over him.

"I don't believe in killing a man just because he's stupid and you might take something from that. Are we even now?"

Williams was hunched on his side, swearing, grasping his leg and didn't seem to hear. Cort nudged him with his boot and he grunted with pain then looked up, scowling.

"We're even, arsehole. Why don't you fuck off now!"

"My pleasure." Cort looked over at the bank and tensed as he saw Ben and Bellows coming down the steps. They both noticed him and there was a brief verbal exchange between them but they kept walking, turning down an alley that led in the direction of the stable. Cort knew he should join them right away and he turned away from Williams, heading towards the hotel. He'd only taken a couple of steps when Toby's voice rang out.

"He's going for his…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Cort spun round, reaching for his Colt as a bullet whistled past his left ear. Williams was still on the ground but now he was clutching his gun and it was pointed at Cort's heart. He reacted instinctively, his body over-riding his brain and he'd fired before Williams could get off a second shot. The bullet pierced the fat man's forehead and splattered blood and brains across the snow as it exited.

Cort felt numb as he watched the twitching body like it was part of a nightmare. He'd tried everything possible to avoid it but once again he'd taken life. He'd forsaken all his principles, broken all his holy vows and he could almost feel the devil's laughter rumbling below his boots. He was only dimly aware of renewed applause from the people in the street and while he'd clearly done something to please them, he'd betrayed himself and his God in the process.

Maybe there was something he could do about that, though. Right now nothing else was important. He turned around and headed down the street, walking as fast as he dared, praying he might find some kind of salvation. Praying he could remember the way.


	19. Chapter 18

Tobias Furnell watched, bewildered, as Cort marched off down the road, moving fast in the wrong direction The killing had caused quite a stir amongst the gathered spectators, many of whom were now clustered around the body of Tyrone Williams, their cacophony of excited conversation testimony to his unpopularity. Toby couldn't figure out where Cort found it necessary to be right now, other than the stable where they'd all agreed to meet, but he clearly had other plans. Toby had seen Ben and Jack Bellows come out of the bank and duck down an alley right before Williams decided to try and shoot Cort in the back of the head. He had a pretty good idea what was in the bag clutched in Bellows' hand, but the bank was peaceful enough and soon after the manager himself had strolled onto the porch to take a look at the action in the street

Toby had never seen anybody use a gun with such speed and accuracy before but, having learned Cort's full name a few minutes earlier, he wasn't totally surprised. Cortez Thompson had been a regular visitor to the chapbooks he'd read, or rather devoured, in his youth. John Herod's most ruthless deputy; tall, dark and ugly, smart but cruel, dangerous as a rattler and wily as a fox, the fastest gun in the entire territory and a sadistic killer to boot... Toby was bright enough to realise the publishers of those pamphlets were all about cheap titillation and a quick buck, with no interest in accuracy, but nonetheless he'd grown up admiring men like Cort, fancying he could be just like them, though his personal circumstances tended to rule it out. As the youngest son in a wealthy, influential family he was expected to make something of himself, go to college and forge a worthwhile career. He'd chosen medicine since it would eventually afford him the chance to work in frontier towns, encounter the kind of people he'd read about and experience it all first hand. Right now he felt like he was living inside one of those chapbook stories and his heart was banging with excitement. He couldn't imagine ever going back to college now.

Cort was a long way down the steeply-inclined street and Toby decided to follow before he lost sight of him completely. After all, hadn't Cort's last instruction been to cover him? He set off in pursuit, adopting a fast, lop-sided shuffle which was quite effective in the snow and he reflected on the differences between fact and fiction as he walked. Cort was a lot younger than he'd expected and didn't look anything like the pictures or descriptions in the chapbooks. He was tall for sure, but fair and not at all ugly. Toby reckoned most women would probably find him quite handsome, though he could definitely use a haircut sometime soon. He was certainly smart, lethal with a handgun and dangerous when provoked, the writers had got those parts right. But the man he'd met was also kind and considerate; calm, quietly-spoken but tough as hell when it came down to it. There was a lot more to him than that too; things Toby hadn't figured out yet. Like how an infamous outlaw had become a lawman in his boss's old town, why he and his friends were really in Bisbee, and why the look on his face after he shot Williams dead was something close to despair…

Cort turned a corner and Toby quickened his pace. He pushed too hard and immediately slipped over, riding down the rest of the hill on his backside. His rudderless passage was finally broken by a huge snowdrift and his momentum sent him right into the middle of it. He floundered out, cursing and spluttering, slapping snow from his coat and pants and praying to God nobody had witnessed the embarrassing spectacle. The street was deserted though, except for Cort who clearly hadn't noticed. He was standing outside the church and gazing up at the cross on its roof.

Toby wondered if he was planning on going in. It belonged to Henry Usher and wasn't the best place to find salvation in his opinion. Nonetheless, it was the only church in town and now he found himself wondering why a gunslinger, or lawman, would have any use for it. Intrigued, he moved closer. Cort was still staring at the cross, his expression was blank and he seemed oblivious to the blood running down his chin and dripping onto his coat. He seemed to be talking to himself, his lips moving rapidly, but it was only when Toby got right up close that he heard the murmured words of a prayer. That surprised him more than anything he'd experienced in the past few hours. He'd figured Cort for a lot of things, but never religion.

"You thinking about going in?"

He spoke quietly but Cort reacted like somebody had let off a gun beside his ear. He spun around, staring wildly and Toby knew he didn't recognise him.

"It's me, Toby!"

Cort's eyes suddenly focussed and he relaxed a little and wiped blood from his mouth.

"What are you doing here?"

"You asked me to cover you, remember? Why are _you_ here, Cort? This is Henry Usher's church and I told you about that fucker last night!"

"I know." Cort looked at him directly and his eyes seemed a little red. "But it's the only church in town, right?"

His voice was shaky and Toby nodded mutely.

"Then I've got business here. You reckon you can keep watch?"

Toby nodded again, utterly baffled by this latest turn of events. Cort started up the stairs to the chapel and he called after him.

"Never figured you for the religious type."

Cort turned and offered a weak smile.

"I was a priest for more than three years, Toby, and taking life doesn't come easy now. I've got to try and make amends."

Toby's jaw dropped open. Of all the things he might have suspected, or thought he'd fathomed about Cort, a preacher didn't come anywhere close. Cort's smile disappeared.

"Shocking, isn't it?"

He disappeared inside the church and Toby considered going after him, then thought better of it. Confession, or whatever Cort was intent on doing in there, was none of his business. There was a small saloon opposite and he took advantage of its proximity, went inside and ordered a beer. Business was slow, in fact he was the only one in there, but a few more customers came in right behind him and two more arrived just after he'd taken a seat by the window. They looked like travellers with long, heavy coats, wide-brimmed hats and fancy guns. They bought drinks, sat down nearby and dealt a hand of cards. He eyed them briefly but they had their heads down, intent on their game, and he turned back to the street, reeling from Cort's most recent revelation.

Some of it made sense, he supposed. Cort's composure, his gentle and accommodating manner, his thoughtfulness and kindness were much more in line with a preacher than a ruthless outlaw. Toby could only imagine what he was feeling right now; a man of God killing somebody in the street would be hard to reconcile and Cort seemed devastated by it. Toby hoped a spell in the church would help; he'd only known Cort a short while but he respected and admired him. If he'd been anything like the character in the chapbooks Toby doubted he'd have gone anywhere near him, let alone be sitting here now and posting guard.

The street outside was quiet, the chapel peaceful, and he wondered where Ben and Bellows were right now. They wouldn't sit around in the stable for long, not with a big bag of money between them, but would they know where to come looking? He got the feeling Ben and Cort knew each other pretty well but Bellows was an enigma. He looked like hell, with two black eyes and a busted up nose, and they both kept him at arm's length. He, in turn, took a sneering, condescending attitude towards them. It was an odd situation, an odd dynamic, but he'd figure it out eventually. He considered going back to the hotel to let them know where Cort was, but decided against it. He'd been asked to keep watch and that's what he was going to do.

That's what he'd been doing in the stable when he'd noticed three men skulking around the back of the hotel and peering furtively through windows. They'd all been bundled up against the cold and he had trouble identifying them. Only the extreme bulk of one had given him away, and it was that man who'd gone round to the front of the hotel while the others pushed their way through the back door. Toby had given them a couple of minutes then followed, through the kitchen and into the dining room, its far doors thrown open to a scene of violence. Tyrone Williams and his buddies looked to be kicking the shit out of Cort and Toby had reacted instinctively, drawing his guns and shooting the cowardly fuckers. He figured Cort must be hurting from the beating, though right now he was surely hurting from something worse than fists and boots…

Movement in the street caught Toby's eye and he sat up straight, suddenly attentive to the job in hand, but it was only the local preacher, hunched up against the cold and scuttling towards his church like a rat. Toby scowled at the sight of him; a balding, middle aged fellow with a nervous, harassed air about him. Toby had never spoken to him, never been anywhere near the church, but everything about the man needled him. He was of no immediate threat though, might even be of some help to Cort, so he settled back into his chair and kept watching. Ten minutes later not a thing had changed, though the men playing cards finished their hand and their drinks and departed quietly. He watched them cross the street and frowned as they started up the steps to the chapel. Men like that didn't belong in there!

Toby left the saloon in a rush, dashed across the road and cautiously pushed open the big door to the church. Everything seemed calm inside, though. It was a big place, the regular cruciform layout but light and airy with bright winter sunlight flooding through the windows and throwing shadows off the pews. It smelled of wood and candles, was dominated by a huge cross hung on the wall behind the Alter and it seemed totally empty; Toby looked around for the men but they were gone, and Cort was nowhere in sight either. He made his way cautiously down one side of the nave, staying in the shadows and finally he found him in the darkness of an alcove near the north transept, on his knees with his head bowed low. A small candle was burning on a little ledge in front of him and its flame guttered as he approached. Cort didn't move, he appeared deep in contemplation and Toby decided to leave him like that for as long as it took. He backed off slowly and took cover behind a wooden pillar, keeping a sharp eye out for the men he knew were in here somewhere.

It was warm and quiet, peaceful even, and Toby figured he should be using this time to renew his acquaintance with God. He'd not set foot inside a church for over six months and a part of him felt guilty for that, though he reckoned God would understand why. A sound from the other side of the church distracted him from his thoughts and he peered around the pillar. There was nothing to see but the sound came again, and again. It was familiar but he couldn't quite identify it, not until he heard a man cry out in pain, then it dropped into place. There was a beating taking place, somewhere close by and he looked over at Cort, who's head was raised now and turned in the same direction. He got slowly to his feet and Toby called out softly.

"There's two men in here, Cort, and the priest. Something bad's going down."

Cort frowned and beckoned him closer. "Stay with me and keep quiet."

Together they approached the Alter and the sounds grew louder as they neared the Sacristy. They listened for a while but the wood of the door was thick and Toby could get no sense of what was happening inside. He could hear voices, the sound of blows and somebody moaning, but there was no audible dialogue to identify who was getting beaten by whom. He glanced at Cort, who seemed none the wiser, and then a voice rang out, loud and clear.

"For the love of God, stop! I'll tell you if you stop hitting me!"

Then it was obvious: somebody inside the room was beating on the priest. Toby was of the opinion he probably deserved it but Cort felt differently. He drew his gun, kicked the door open and stormed into the room. The priest was on the ground, his face covered in blood, and the two men from the saloon were standing over him with their backs to the door. They had no time to turn before Cort cannoned into them, shoving one of them into a pillar and slamming the butt of his pistol into the other's skull. The man hit the ground unconscious as his buddy whirled around, going for his gun, and Cort's fist sent him reeling back against the wooden post. His head cracked hard against it and he slid slowly to the floor, out cold.

Cort darted over to the priest and knelt beside him. He glanced up as Toby approached.

"Find something to bind them and get them out of here."

Toby nodded curtly and hurried out of the room, casting about for something that might serve as rope. His eye was caught by some embroidered hangings on the Alter and he went over to investigate. They were held on there by sewn-in twining, which seemed stout enough, so he set to work cutting it away from the fabric with his pocket knife. It took a while and by the time he got back the priest was sitting on a stool with a cloth pressed to his face. Cort was squatting beside him, talking quietly. The two thugs were showing no signs of coming round but Toby moved quickly, dragging them from the room by their ankles, binding their hands behind their backs and securing the loose ends to a nearby pillar. He removed their weapons for good measure and went back into the Sacristy, closing the door softly behind him.

Cort and the priest were still talking but he wasn't really interested in what they were saying, figured it was just two preachers discussing God, or suffering, or whatever preachers discussed, and now he felt a little awkward. He set about inspecting the guns he'd taken, hoping they'd be done soon, and then the priest said something that got his attention. The man mentioned a name and Cort repeated it back, sounding surprised as hell. The name was Henry Usher and Toby moved closer, listening intently. Cort saw him coming but didn't say anything, and it wouldn't have made any difference if he had. The priest was talking fast, and he sounded out of breath.

"… You've got to understand that I never wanted a part of his ministry. I'm just a small town preacher trying to tend my flock but he arrived one day and announced he was taking over. He said he had the money and power to do it, if I wanted to continue my work then I had to do things his way. I'd spent over two years building my congregation and this church, giving the good people of Bisbee someplace decent to worship, and I wasn't about to leave that behind on his account, so I stayed."

He paused and mopped at his face again, breathing harder. Cort eyed him with concern. "You got any communion wine around here?"

The priest pointed to a cabinet in the corner of the room and Toby went to fetch it before being asked. He found a decanter and some glasses inside, filled one to the brim and took a couple of large gulps for himself before carrying it over, grimacing at the sickly sweetness of the wine. The priest had no such problem though, finishing half the glass in one long draught. He coughed and then looked at Cort.

"I thank God for bringing you here today, but this won't be the end of it. Usher will send more of them. Every time he thinks I'm holding out on him, this is what happens."

Cort frowned. "It's happened before?"

The priest shrugged. "One day I figure he'll quit the beatings and have me killed. That'd be easier for him; then he can send somebody who doesn't have a problem breaking the sanctity of confession; who doesn't care if decent people die because of it…"

Every nerve in Toby's body started jangling and in his mind that could be only one person. A familiar red mist began to fill his head, pushing out rhyme or reason and he stepped up close to the priest, fists clenched, almost spitting out the words. "You mean people like my brother, Gregory Furnell?"

The priest stared up at him and seemed lost for words. The mist got redder. "Say something, dammit!"

He seemed resigned but not intimidated. "I'm sorry for your loss my son, truly, but that business with Greg opened my eyes. Until then I'd been doing as Usher asked and passing along the failings of my flock. I was naïve enough, or stupid enough to think he was just curious, wanted to know the kind of town he was dealing with. Then Greg confided in me, told me he was being blackmailed by a gang for something he'd confessed months before. He never made the connection between my confessional, those blackmailers and Henry Usher, but I did. Then Greg died… On that day I swore Usher would hear nothing more from my lips."

Cort interrupted. "Even when they beat you?"

The priest smiled, then grimaced. "I'm economic with the truth, son, and I don't give him anything worthy of blackmail. I tell him God is strong in Bisbee and my congregation abide by the Bible and lead virtuous lives. I don't think it'll wash for much longer, but it's good for now..."

His words only made Toby madder. "You never told anyone? That bastard as good as murdered my brother and you never figured to help your congregation by blowing the whistle on him?!"

The man shook his head strenuously. "I've got no proof and who'd take my word over that of Henry Usher? The only man who could have backed me up is dead and I'll join him in heaven if I say anything. The best I can do is protect the rest of my flock and pray God takes care of Usher in his own way."

He carried on talking but Toby stopped listening. His mind was whirling, his heart pumping fit to bust. This priest certainly had played an unwitting part in his brother's death, but he wasn't the reason for it. Now he knew for sure who was responsible and Henry Usher was the one who'd die. He was going to ride to Tucson right now and put a bullet between his eyes! A hand on his shoulder brought him out of the violent reverie. Cort was standing beside him.

"Usher's well protected, kid. All you'll do is get yourself killed."

He shook Cort's hand off and glared at him. "I'll do as I please and I don't need a damned keeper! You ain't got a dead brother to reckon with."

"I've got memories of being buried alive, and they're not exactly pleasant." Cort sounded weary. "You go if you need to, but alone you'll wind up nothing but dead."

Toby scowled, Cort's quiet words were penetrating the comforting familiarity of self-righteous rage and he didn't like it.

"And if I stick around with you? What you gonna do about Usher?"

"We've got plans for him, and today's just the start of it."

Toby thought about the money in the bag and a flicker of understanding shot into his brain and straight out again before he could grasp it.

"Ben and myself, even Jack, we've all got reason to bring Usher down. Maybe not as good as yours, but we're looking at the same thing and together we might even stand a chance. "

Toby was beginning to calm down. Temper was his biggest fault, his mother always told him that. He reacted first and thought about it after, but he could hear the reason in Cort's words. After all, if a man like that had wound up nearly dead by Usher's hand, what chance did some college kid have? Suddenly he felt a little embarrassed.

"Reckon you're right, Cort. Reckon it's smartest to stay with you."

Cort was about to say something else but the priest got up from his stool.

"I don't know who you are, son, but I feel God sent you to get Bisbee out of the hole Henry Usher dug for us."

Cort frowned. "I'm no saviour. I only came here to ask God's forgiveness for taking a life, not even an hour since."

The priest's face went white. "That killing in the street? Tyrone Williams… that was you?"

When Cort nodded he stumbled back towards the stool, sitting down hard and staring up with an expression of abject disappointment mixed with outright fear. Cort seemed mortified by the reaction and Toby bristled.

"You should get all the facts before you pass judgement, preacher, and this man ain't no cold-blooded killer. Last night he stopped that fat bastard beating on me so Williams got a grudge. Today he came back with his buddies and beat on Cort, then challenged him to a gunfight. It wasn't no fair fight either. Cort only shot him in the leg, as a warning, but when he turned his back Williams tried to put a bullet in his head. Cort did everything he could to keep from killing him, except getting killed himself…"

Cort looked astonished by the outburst but Toby carried on talking to the priest, a little more gently now.

"Cort was a preacher once and he's feeling like hell right now. He don't need you making it worse!"

The priest seemed stunned by the revelation and the look he gave Cort was uncertain.

"Is that true?"

Cort shrugged. "Decide for yourself, padre. Listen to the Lord."

The priest thought about it for a long time then stood up and slowly approached. He put his hand on Cort's shoulder. "I fear I misjudged you, my son, and I ask God's mercy for that. I'll gladly hear your confession and help in anyway I can. Tell me what I can do."

Cort seemed bemused by the sudden change of heart and it took him a while to answer. When he finally did his voice was hesitant. "Pretty soon Usher will come to Bisbee in a fighting rage and he'll be asking questions. All I ask is that he somehow learns that the answers are in Redemption."

"That's all? There's nothing else?" The priest seemed aggrieved but Cort carried on talking, more urgently now.

"One day you might need to stand up and tell folks about Usher. You can't do that if he finds reason to kill you, padre, so be discreet and don't put yourself in danger."

The priest indicated the door. "What about those men outside? They work for him."

Cort considered for a moment. "What's the law like around here? Are they in Usher's pocket?"

"Billy Reynolds is marshal." The priest's brow furrowed. "He comes to church regular enough but he hates Mayor Anderson something chronic. In fact he's the loudest voice calling for Anderson to quit, and everyone knows Anderson only got the job on account of being best buddies with Usher, so I reckon that puts Billy in the clear. Those boys he employs as deputies are loyal to him, and they keep pretty good order."

Cort nodded. "Then let him deal with it. He won't take kindly to them beating on his priest."

Toby wondered where Billy Reynolds and his posse might be right now. It wouldn't take long for word to reach them about the killing and he moved close to Cort, speaking quietly.

"We should get out of here before they come looking for you."

Cort held his hand out to the priest. "We have to leave now, padre, and you didn't hear my name, right?"

The priest smiled and shook it warmly.

"I'll pray for you every day, my son. Whoever you are."

They left the priest sipping at his wine and stepped over the bodies of the two thugs, who were showing signs of coming round. Cort strode down the aisle and Toby hurried along next to him, suddenly nervous. They'd been here too long and anything could have happened outside in that time. His worst fears were confirmed as the big street door suddenly banged open when they were barely halfway down the church. The bright light streaming in made it difficult to see anything except a man's silhouette and Toby instantly went for his guns. He glanced across at Cort. Sure enough the Colt was in his hand but then the figure in the doorway spoke up, sounding annoyed as hell.

"It's me, it's Ben, dammit!"

He stalked towards them and as his face came into focus, it was clear he was furious. He was glaring at Cort.

"While you've been shooting the breeze with God, the town marshal's been asking questions and now he's started a search. If he finds you he's gonna arrest you, so we'd better get out damned quick. I got the horses outside."


	20. Chapter 19

Ben Carter picked his way across the frozen terrain. The full moon on the white snow made it easy enough to find his way, but there were drifts everywhere, he'd already fallen headlong into one, and he was wary of doing it again. He could see the cave in the distance, flickering yellow firelight spilling out of its mouth, and almost unconsciously he slowed his pace. He had no desire to go back in there anytime soon, even though it was bitterly cold. He'd come out for a piss and stayed out as long as possible, but now his fingers were turning numb and his lungs were aching with the effort of drawing in the icy air.

It was the same cave they'd used on the way to Bisbee, and there was enough dry wood in there from their previous visit to keep a good fire going. They had plenty of whisky and enough food to keep everybody satisfied, but while their last spell here had been amiable and relaxed, now the atmosphere was tense and edgy. It had eventually become so claustrophobic he'd had to get out for a while. It shouldn't be like this: they had the money, the robbery had gone like a dream and they'd be back in Redemption by this time tomorrow. Hell, they should be celebrating!

But the trip to Bisbee had so nearly ended in disaster, and that sucked all the enjoyment from the occasion. Cort had come damned close to ruining everything; first killing a man in the street, in front of an audience, and then ignoring their carefully prepared plan and disappearing; spending so long in church that the marshal had nearly caught up with him. They'd got out of town by the skin of their teeth, only the treacherous conditions saving them. If it weren't for the snow they'd have a posse on their trail right now and Ben was angry as hell with Cort for putting them all at risk. He'd made some harsh comments as they'd ridden and he didn't regret any of them. Cort hadn't responded or reacted to his words and that just made him madder. He was itching for a fight and Cort refused to give him one, but it wasn't just the simmering tension which was causing problems right now.

Ben approached the cave and took a deep breath, figuring he'd drink enough whisky to fall asleep and hope things improved in the morning. The scene he found was pretty much the one he'd left: Jack Bellows was pretending to doze by the fire, chained to a convenient rock and Cort was sitting in the shadows, quiet and morose, a half-empty bottle of whisky on the ground next to him. Only the firelight glinting in his eyes as he glanced up told Ben he was still awake. His split, swollen lip wasn't out of place in current company – all four of them looked like hell with bruised and cut faces – and he was hunched in the posture he'd been adopting all day, whenever he thought nobody was looking. His left arm was tucked inside his coat, keeping weight off the shoulder which Toby said had been injured by Tyrone Williams. Cort insisted it was nothing serious and right now Ben didn't much care if it was.

Toby was still sat beside him, sharing the whisky and murmuring quietly. Cort nodded occasionally, said something back from time to time and it annoyed the hell out of Ben. He hadn't reckoned on any problems with Toby - the kid had seemed smart and tough enough to ride with them - but today he'd started acting strange. He'd barely left Cort's side since they came out of the church and the way he stared at him made Ben want to laugh. He couldn't figure out when or why he'd changed from righteous brother seeking revenge to hero-worshipping school kid, but he could practically see the stars in Toby's eyes. In a girl it would be nothing short of a full-blown crush but if Cort had noticed he wasn't saying.

Bellows had noticed though, and Ben could see his hooded eyes gleaming with mirth as he looked over. He hadn't said anything yet, but it was only a matter of time. Ben hunkered down by the fire opposite him, his back to Cort, and scowled.

"You got something to say?"

Bellows grinned. "Seems your buddy's got a new dog in his life…"

"Shut up, Bellows!" Ben grabbed for his own whisky bottle and took a slug, annoyed at the man's perception. That was pretty much it, wasn't it? He resented how Cort wasn't talking to him, not even to fight, but seemed able to confide in a kid he'd only known a day. He resented how Cort was hurting but wouldn't admit it and, most of all, he was missing his company. He knew Cort was in a bad place right now, knew that's why he'd spent so long in that damned church, but he couldn't forgive him for it just yet. Ben knew something more than prayer had gone down inside, but every time he asked Cort just shrugged; whenever he asked Toby, he said Cort should be the one to explain.

Ben felt caught in a stalemate and the frustration was driving him insane. He took a few more gulps of whisky, welcoming the first warm tendrils of drunkenness, and tried not to let the simmering anger get a hold of him. The situation wasn't helped by the bag of money on the floor next to him. He knew Cort wouldn't ride off with it in the night, and he had no interest in stealing it himself, but Toby and Bellows were another story. Toby had seemed sincere enough about his motives last night, and said he came from a wealthy family, but four hundred thousand dollars was more money than most people saw in a lifetime and could do all sorts of things to a man's mind. Bellows claimed to have no interest in it either, apparently still wanting only to wreak vengeance on Henry Usher. He'd been seriously aggrieved at being chained up again, arguing that he'd kept his part of the deal inside the bank, that they still needed him and should therefore start trusting him. He'd calmed down when Cort gave him half a bottle of whisky, but he had a point.

Ben didn't know what to do about Bellows. Was he still their prisoner or a new found ally? He'd behaved like a true professional inside the bank – charming the manager with small talk and banter, joking about the injuries to his face and he was so utterly convincing about his business plans that the man had barely raised an eyebrow when he announced he was withdrawing all his money. It was kept in its own private safe and he'd opened it and left the room to get them coffee while they packed the bag full of cash. Afterwards, while Ben had been pacing the stable furiously, cursing Cort and wondering where the hell he'd gone, Bellows had made a quiet tour of the hotel, taking in the aftermath of the shooting and returning with disturbing news about the town Marshal's intentions. It had been Bellows, too, who'd suggested looking for Cort in the church. Ben should have known to find him there, but he hadn't been thinking straight. Bellows was clearly a cool, dependable fellow in a crisis, somebody useful for sure, but he was yet to do anything that would earn Ben's trust. He didn't know how Cort felt, since Cort wasn't talking, but they couldn't keep him chained up forever.

Ben didn't know what to do about the money either. They couldn't keep it in Redemption, that was for sure, and they hadn't even figured out how to get it back to its proper owners. Writing letters was well and good, but those letters would take time to reach their recipients and it wouldn't take long for Henry Usher to work out who'd stolen his money. Redemption was ready for a battle, but was it ready for full-blown warfare?

Behind him he could hear Toby talking, his words inaudible, and then he heard Cort snicker with amusement. He bristled and took another slug of whisky, about to hurl the bottle at Cort's head. Bellows caught his eye.

"Whatever you're about to do, sonny, don't!" His voice was low but he sat up, smooth and fast, and moved as close as his chains would allow. "You'll only make things worse!"

"Back off Bellows, this isn't your business."

"The hell it's not. Cort's injured but that kid isn't, and you know he's gonna back him up if you decide to pick a fight. I don't know what's happened, but if the two of you can't be buddies then our plan's shot to hell and we may as well take the money back to Bisbee."

The wave of anger passed and Ben loosened his grip on the bottle slightly. "He's barely said three words to me all day, what am I supposed to do?"

Bellows shrugged. "You could try talking to him. Cort's the kind of man people want to follow, like that kid there, so you may as well get used to it. The only way you'll ever have him to yourself is to marry him!"

Something about the ludicrous remark struck Ben as hilarious and he burst out laughing, sneezing whisky all over the fire which flared and crackled as it hit. Bellows was grinning and that made him laugh harder, relishing the way it released so much pent-up tension. When he finally recovered, wiping tears from his eyes, he found Toby by the fire, scowling at him.

"What's so funny?"

Ben shook his head. "Not you. You're not that important."

The scowl deepened. "I said what's so damned funny."

Ben was about to stand, ready to give this insolent pup a punch in the mouth, but Bellows' sardonic drawl stopped him in his tracks.

"Butt out, kid. You and Cort been gossiping like schoolgirls all night and Ben didn't figure it was his business to interfere, so what makes this your business?"

"I dunno, the atmosphere's a little…" Toby seemed embarrassed. "Just wanted to share the joke, I guess."

Bellows gazed at him for a moment then motioned him to sit. Toby hunkered down without hesitation and Bellows' eyes flickered towards the rock where Cort was sitting.

"You feel like joining us, Marshal? You're a regular rain cloud on our little parade."

There was no response and Ben resisted the urge to turn his head and look. Bellows continued.

"If you fall apart whenever things don't go right, these boys ain't gonna keep following."

Now there was a rustle of movement, a sharp intake of breath, a curse and Cort stepped into the firelight. He was clutching his whisky bottle and glaring at Bellows.

"I never asked anyone to follow me, Bellows. You're all here of your own free will."

Bellows rattled his chains. "You reckon?"

Cort dug a key out of his pants pocket. "You can leave right now if you want."

Bellows immediately held out his wrists. Cort unlocked the manacles but instead of bolting from the cave, Bellows spread out and made himself comfortable. He glanced at Cort, who was frowning.

"I ain't going nowhere. You got to start trusting me and I figure this is the only way to prove I'm not gonna shoot you, or steal that money."

"What happens when we're asleep?" Cort sat down by the fire, wincing and rubbing his shoulder. Bellows was still watching him, smiling.

"Have a little faith, Reverend."

Cort took a gulp of whisky and stared into the flames, clearly prepared to say no more. Ben started getting twitchy again and he stole a few glances, trying to find a way to break the awkward silence, but the appropriate words wouldn't come. Finally Bellows stood up with an exaggerated sigh and beckoned to Toby.

"Let's you and me take a walk, kid. These ladies got some things to discuss."

Toby glanced over at Cort for approval but he didn't look up. He got to his feet cautiously and slapped his guns.

"Remember I got these, old man. Don't be getting ideas!"

Bellows just laughed and strode out of the cave, Toby on his heels. Cort didn't move and Ben gazed at him as the silence lengthened again.

"You're one stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?"

No response. He tried again.

"I ain't sorry for what I said before, so don't be expecting apologies."

The corner of Cort's mouth twitched but he just kept staring at the fire.

"Damn it, Cort, you killed a man and you said a prayer and asked forgiveness. Can you let it go now?"

"I'm trying." The words were so quiet that Ben barely caught them.

"Try harder, buddy, 'cause you're no use to anyone like this. If you're gonna be boss you gotta stop thinking like a preacher, get tough and make some damned decisions!""

Cort glanced at him quizzically. "Such as?"

"Such as what we do about Bellows, where we hide that bag of cash, what we do when Usher comes calling, how long we got to plan for his visit…"

"Not long." Cort took a gulp of whisky. "As soon as he reaches Bisbee he'll know to come looking for that money in Redemption."

Ben stared, not sure he'd heard right. "How would he know that?"

"I asked the priest in that church to pass it along". Cort shrugged. "It'll stop Usher giving folks a hard time for something that's not their fault."

All the anger of the past day came rushing back to the surface and Ben was near enough shaking with rage. How could Cort be so damned stupid?

"So getting us nearly arrested wasn't enough? You figured you'd tell Usher where to find us for good measure? Hell Cort, did you give that preacher our names too?"

Cort was watching him stoically. "He's a good man…"

"He's Usher's priest, dammit!" Ben shot to his feet. "He's a corrupt piece of shit like everyone else in that organisation and you just signed our fucking death warrants, you jackass!"

He kicked out viciously at a lump of rock. It scudded across the ground and collided solidly with Cort's knee. He swore softly, put down his whisky bottle and got slowly to his feet. His eyes were burning and it had nothing to do with the fire.

"You should watch your temper, it makes you erratic."

Ben clenched his fists. "You don't think I got cause? I always figured you were smart, but seems to me whenever you get mixed up with the church your brains turn to shit!"

"Is that so?" Cort sounded totally calm. "Seems to me every time you get a feeling you don't understand, you get angry."

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" Ben took a step forward, itching to punch him in the face, but Cort didn't budge.

"I'm not fighting you, and if you hit me there's no going back. I won't accept some half-arsed apology when you've cooled off, so be sure of yourself."

He sounded totally sincere and Ben hesitated. This was a clear warning that any attack would end their relationship permanently. Was it worth it? Cort was watching him.

"Why don't you say what's really on your mind, Ben? If you've got some beef with Toby just spit it out!"

Ben glared at him. "I got no beef with Toby except he looks at you like you're some kind of hero, and I reckon you like it!"

"It's pretty much how I looked at John Herod when I was that age, though I hope I make a better example." Cort looked a little sly now. "Are you jealous 'cause he don't look at you that way?"

"Like a schoolgirl with a crush?" Ben laughed and he found the notion genuinely amusing. "No, you conceited son of a bitch, you can have him all to yourself. You might find it gets tiresome after a spell."

Cort smiled "It'll be hell with two wives fighting over me!"

The words hit Ben like a bullet and he burst out laughing for the second time in one night. He managed to splutter out a response.

"I really need to get myself a woman!"

"Reckon so." Cort stepped forward, offering his hand. Ben took it and shook. On impulse he pulled Cort into a rough embrace. There was no resistance or hesitation; Cort gripped him right back.

"Well ain't this intimate!"

Jack Bellows' amused drawl cut through the camaraderie like a cheese knife and they sprang apart.

"Shouldn't leave two girls chattering, I guess!""

Ben whirled around, more than a little embarrassed, but forgot it instantly when he saw what was confronting him. Bellows was alone and holding both of Toby's Army Colts. They were cocked and ready, one aimed at him, the other at Cort.

His hand moved instantly to the Remington on his hip, but Bellows made a clucking noise and shook his head.

"You're not fast enough, son." His eyes flickered across to Cort. "Not even you, Cortez Thompson!"

Cort was glowering from under his fringe.

"Take the money and get out, Bellows. That's what you've been planning all along, isn't it?"

Bellows smirked. "So much for Christian charity"

To Ben's utter astonishment he disarmed the pistols and tossed them to the ground.

"I don't know what I gotta do to make you ladies trust me, but I'm hoping this is a start."

He kicked the weapons towards Cort then flopped down by the fire and spread himself out again. He reached for his whisky and took a long draught. Cort was watching him, eyes narrowed.

"What have you done with Toby, you bastard?"

"We're still not on first name terms?" Bellows grinned. "Relax Marshal, your dog's gonna have a sore head tomorrow but he'll survive."

"Cort scowled. "What did you do to him?"

Bellows shrugged nonchalantly. "Just showed him it's a man's world out there, and he's still a boy. Ben's got no problem with that, do you Ben?"

Ben shook his head in disbelief. Toby could be a pain in the arse for sure, but he'd done nothing to deserve a beating. Bellows was a callous, merciless thug and he didn't care to think what might have happened out in the snow. He turned towards the cave entrance, calling back over his shoulder.

"If you've hurt him you're a dead man!"

"Promises, promises…" Bellows' voice drifted after him as he dashed outside, his heart pounding in his chest, dreading what he might find.

Toby was lying just inside the cave mouth. His nose was bleeding and there was a dark stain on the dirt beside his head. Ben dropped to his knees beside him and shook him urgently.

"Wake up, kid."

It took a bit more shaking before Toby moaned and opened his eyes, blinking a few times to focus.

"What happened?"

Ben grinned with relief. "I reckon you learned a few things about Jack Bellows..."

Toby sat up slowly, grimacing and rubbing the back of his head. "Reckon I did."

Ben cocked an eyebrow. "Did you cheek him?"

Toby scowled. "He ain't my father and I'll cheek whoever I damned please!" He shook his head and winced, suddenly contrite.

"I been reading about outlaws all my life but Cort was the first one I actually met. He's so decent and kind I figured all bad men must be like that deep down..."

Ben laughed out loud. "You got some learning to do, Toby. Cort was never like other outlaws 'cause he's got a heart and a conscience. Sometimes he goes through hell because of it…"

Toby nodded. "I saw that today."

He shot Ben a furtive look. "I know you and him are buddies, and I ain't trying to come between you, but you can't blame me for liking him!"

Ben stood up. "I don't blame you, kid. He's a better man than you know."

He thrust out a hand and helped Toby stand.

"We're in a damned ungodly situation right now, so don't be surprised if he don't work too many miracles."

Toby nodded and shivered. Ben turned on his heel and went back into the cave. He found Cort and Bellows sitting together by the fire, talking quietly. Toby's guns were on top of a nearby stone and Cort's gun belt was lying there too. Clearly the two of them had reached an understanding. On impulse Ben unbuckled his own guns, laid them on the rock and went to join them. A moment later Toby hunkered down beside him, wiping his nose and glaring at Bellows, who picked up a bottle of whisky and offered it to him.

"No hard feelings, kid, huh?"

Toby grabbed the bottle and took a gulp. He squinted at Bellows, his eyes glinting dangerously in the firelight.

"I'll let you know, old man!"

"That's enough!" Cort sounded weary. "This isn't a contest to find out who's toughest, or who can get hurt the worst! We've all got to start working together now and any personal issues get left behind in this cave, right?"

Toby glanced at him and finally nodded. "You gonna put me in the picture now?"

Cort shot him a fleeting smile. "I promised didn't I? After that we're going to make some decisions, make a plan and work this damned thing out."

Jack Bellows smirked. "We already got one thing decided, don't we? You gonna tell them, Marshal?"

Cort sighed and took a deep breath, eyeing Ben directly.

"We got ourselves some help, boys. Jack here's just signed up as a Deputy Marshal of Redemption."


	21. Chapter 20

Cort put down his pen and tried to shake some of the stiffness out of his hand. The Marshal's Office was warm and quiet – all he could hear was the cracking of the wood burner, the distant whistle of wind - and it had got dark outside whilst he'd been engrossed in his work. He'd been at the damned thing for hours and still wasn't happy with it. The day after their return to Redemption, Charlie Barton and his cronies – now calling themselves the Town Council – had approached him with the idea of conducting a Christmas Day service in town. He'd turned them down flat. He had no desire to stand up and preach a sermon to the same people who'd watched him kill men in the street and he was uncomfortable with the idea of masquerading as a priest, if only for a few hours.

But they'd kept on badgering him, finding swift solutions to every argument he'd presented. Eventually he'd agreed to preside over a morning gathering and deliver some kind of festive speech – something which steered clear of the Bible but offered hope and cheer to the people of this hard-pressed little town. He'd put off writing the words as long as he could but when Christmas Eve arrived and he could delay no longer, he found it more difficult than he'd expected. Not having the Bible to reference and quote meant he'd had to wrack his brain for personal examples of every point he was trying to make, and the effort was giving him a headache.

He rubbed his eyes, reached for the beer bottle on his desk and discovered it was empty. He was about to shout for Toby to fetch another but stopped himself. The kid wasn't his servant, though he tended to forget that sometimes, so he stood up and headed into the parlour to get one for himself. He could hear pots clattering in the kitchen out back and the smell of cooking made his stomach growl, but it was only just after 6pm and dinner wouldn't be ready for another long hour.

Having experienced the culinary efforts of Cort, Ben and Jack Bellows respectively, Toby had insisted, vigorously, that he take sole responsibility for their meals. Nobody had protested – none of them had the faintest idea what to do in a kitchen anyway – and Toby had been concocting a variety of exotic dishes for the past fortnight. He seemed to enjoy it but when he wasn't cooking, or out sourcing new and increasingly spicy ingredients from the Mexican traders, he was seldom far from Cort's side.

Cort didn't mind having him around, though it was a source of constant amusement to Ben and Jack Bellows, and he knew it was more than the simple case of hero-worship his deputies supposed. Toby was watching him at all times, listening and learning, and most days he'd ride into the desert for a couple of hours. Cort knew he was out there practising with his guns and one day he'd followed, given him some pointers and showed him a few gunslinger's tricks. Toby's eyes had lit up as he'd watched the fancy gun twirling and he'd jokingly challenged Cort to a quick-draw. There was gravity beneath the humour however, and Cort recognised a need to test himself so he'd obliged. Toby was nowhere close in terms of speed, but still faster than many of the men in town, and Cort figured this little demonstration of superior prowess would only make him keener. He wasn't wrong either; afterwards Toby was gone for three or four hours at a time.

Toby was currently bunking down in one of the jailhouse cells but Jack Bellows had firmly declined the other cell and taken up residency at a nearby hotel. That suited everybody just fine. Toby still hadn't forgiven him for the attack outside the cave and the atmosphere between them was frosty at best. Before Cort had hidden Henry Usher's money, which they'd counted laboriously and amounted to $405,000, he'd been persuaded to appropriate the extra five thousand in order to sustain them all. Though deeply uneasy with the idea of using money wrung from the hardworking efforts of others, Ben pointed out how Redemption would struggle to pay one lawman's wages, let alone three, and Bellows argued that if they were successful in exposing Henry Usher, there would be more of his money to spread among the wronged. He'd reluctantly agreed then ridden out into the desert alone, hiding the money in a secure spot where it would stay until its rightful owners came to claim it.

They'd all spent a dull couple of days writing letters to the most prominent victims of Henry Usher's blackmail. They realised pretty quickly that the money they'd stolen, although sizeable, wouldn't go far when split amongst the huge number of people involved so they'd targeted 60 men, all of whom lived within reasonable travelling distance of Redemption. It had amused Cort to see that $400,000 split 60 ways amounted to $6,666 per victim, though Ben and Bellows had failed to see the irony. It would take time for their letters to arrive, and they'd all said the same thing: if the recipients wanted some of their money back, and wanted to learn who was behind the blackmail scheme, they should come to Redemption. Afterwards, Cort had called a meeting with the new Town Council and put them in the picture – advising them there might soon be an influx of respectable citizens looking for answers, but that they should also be doubly alert for not-so-respectable men. He'd been careful what he told them but they needed to understand that if Henry Usher was angry before, he was mad as hell now.

The Council weren't convinced by his sketchy explanations. Charlie Barton was angling towards getting himself elected as Mayor and he'd hit Cort with a whole volley of questions. He wanted to know how come he'd left town with Jack Bellows as a prisoner but arrived back with him as a deputy marshal. He wanted to know why everybody looked beaten up and why Cort's left arm was in a sling, he wanted to know about Toby and most of all he wanted to know what had happened to upset Henry Usher even more.

Cort desperately wished he hadn't decided to meet these men alone. Jack Bellows was a wily customer and could have spun convincing yarns to answer all their questions, but the best he could do personally was give them the truth. They weren't exactly happy with the news, hadn't exactly endorsed his actions but they'd tried to be understanding. Bellows' presence in town was something of a bugbear and the issue got raised several times. People were frightened of him and the way Cort figured, that was just fine. Bellows knew what people thought and played his part to the hilt. The day after their return he'd done some shopping and kitted himself out all in black. He'd taken to hanging around in the saloons and the whorehouse, guns prominently on display, looking like a dark and brooding bird of doom. His very presence served as a warning to undesirables and trouble makers, he made sure all newcomers were fully aware of the presence of the law and insisted they surrender their weapons to him whilst in town. He was a convincing deputy and he and Ben kept peace in Redemption very effectively. They made a point of questioning all strangers, turning away anyone who acted suspiciously, but nonetheless it was a tense and trying time. All of them were on edge: they knew danger was coming but they didn't know when or how it would arrive, or if they'd even recognise it.

Cort didn't miss the additional stress and worry of being the only lawman in town, but it seemed that right now he got landed with all the paperwork while his deputies got all the action. Doc Wallace had something to do with that – insisting he keep his left arm in a sling while his shoulder healed - and while it got him plenty of interest and sympathy, it also embarrassed the hell out of him. Kitty had taken a special liking to it and most days she came over from the whorehouse and kept him entertained for an hour or so. She wouldn't accept any payment, still insisting it was pleasure not business, and got a real kick out of bedding him while injured and apparently too weak to prevent her doing as she pleased. She liked teasing him, and he enjoyed pretending to be helpless.

He smiled at the most recent memory, her promise to give him a Christmas present he'd remember, then took his beer back to the desk. All members of Redemption's law force were expected in the saloon later, some kind of festive gathering, and he needed to finish the damned speech first. The distant clatter from the kitchen reminded him of something else he needed to do. Toby never said anything directly, but pretty much every day he made some kind of intimation as to how he'd like to be wearing a badge. Cort could have simply told him he was too young but there was no real reason to bar him on account of age. Toby was smart, tough, alert and eager to learn. He also understood better than most the threat Henry Usher posed to them all. Since it wouldn't cost the town anything financially to have an extra deputy, he didn't see any harm in giving the kid the promotion he so desperately craved. Toby cooked for them, picked up around the jailhouse, slept in a cell and he deserved something in return. Ben and Jack Bellows didn't have any problem with it, so long as Toby accepted he was the junior of the outfit and did what he was told, so when Cort asked the town blacksmith to make a couple of deputy's badges, he'd impulsively told the man to make it three. He'd stowed the third badge in his desk, planning on giving it to Toby as a Christmas gift. He eyed the drawer where it was waiting, wondering when would be a good time to present it, then sighed and turned his attention back to the scrawled sheets of paper scattered across the desktop.

"You need another beer?"

Cort glanced up, surprised. He hadn't heard Toby come in but there he was, slouched against the doorframe and holding a bottle. He was even more surprised to find the bottle in front of him was empty again. Clearly he'd been more engrossed in the speech than he'd realised. Toby brought the fresh brew over and he took a few gulps.

"You should give that thing a rest." Toby was frowning. "You shouldn't be working on Christmas Eve."

"I'm done." Cort gathered up the sheets of papers and put them in order. "It's ready as it'll ever be. How long's dinner?"

"Twenty minutes". Toby grinned. "You'll like this one, Cort, it's a new recipe I got today. Them Mexicans sure know how to get creative with food…"

Cort hoped he hadn't gotten too creative with the chillies. He'd eaten plenty of spicy food in Hermosillo, but Toby sometimes got a little carried away. Since they had a while before dinner he figured now was as good a time as any to offer his Christmas surprise. He rummaged in his desk drawer for the badge and tossed it towards Toby, who caught it deftly.

"Merry Christmas, Deputy."

Toby's face flushed and his eyes were gleaming as he turned the star over in his hands. "You won't regret this, Marshal, I promise."

Cort nodded. "Just remember you're a junior partner. You do whatever me and Ben say, you hear?"

Toby grinned as he pinned the badge to his shirt. "Do I get my own bedroom too?"

"Only if you share with Ben!"

Toby shook his head vigorously as the street door opened to admit the man in question, closely followed by Jack Bellows. The cold weather hadn't let up for long and both of them stamped their boots and shook snow from their hats as they came in. Outside it was snowing heavily and a gust of icy air snaked around the room. Bellows sniffed appreciatively as he strode through the office and into the parlour but Ben pulled up in front of Toby, his eyes on the badge.

"Welcome aboard, Deputy, but just remember you're a junior in this outfit and…"

"Cort already said all that." Toby scowled and stomped back towards the kitchen. Ben watched him go.

"You reckon he'll do as he's told?"

Cort shrugged. "He's done a pretty good job so far."

"He'd walk into the fires of hell if _you_ asked him." Ben flopped down in the chair opposite and put his feet up on the desk. "I don't know about us mere mortals though…"

Cort sipped at his beer, watching him. "I don't see any reason why he should take orders from Jack Bellows, but I know he'll follow you."

Ben looked dubious but Jack Bellows returned at that moment with beers for them all and they enjoyed a sociable dinner before heading down to Horace's saloon. The place was busy and Cort used it as an opportunity to inform the townsfolk of the latest addition to their law keeping force. Toby was wearing his badge in a prominent spot, practically glowing with pride, but most of the saloon drinkers were nonplussed by the announcement. Cort figured that was okay; Toby needed to prove himself before they'd truly accept him, but a couple of men sidled up and asked if he'd be replacing Jack Bellows. They weren't much pleased to learn that wouldn't be the case. Shortly before midnight Kitty came in with a couple of other whores, which meant business was slack over at the bordello. She instantly started making eyes at him and it wasn't subtle. Cort went over to stop her, before people noticed, and she took it as an opportunity to whisper things in his ear which made him glad his coat was long enough to cover his crotch. Finally she told him his Christmas present was waiting at the jailhouse, then took her leave without a backwards glance. He gave it fifteen minutes before following, telling Ben and Toby he needed to get a good night's sleep, though the grins on their faces informed him that neither was buying it.

Cort had planned on waking early the next day in order to give his speech a final look over before the service began at eleven, but things didn't go to plan. Kitty kept him occupied until the early hours of the morning and he was so exhausted afterwards that only Toby's persistent banging on the door of his bedroom dragged him into the land of the living. It was well after nine and the new deputy had cooked up a Christmas breakfast to be proud of. They all spent so long drinking coffee and shooting the breeze afterwards that he clean forgot about his task.

Outside it was cold and overcast with the promise of more snow to come. Horace's bar had been chosen as the place of gathering and Cort hurried down there, keeping to the boardwalks in order to avoid the snow which was six inches thick in the street. He was nervous and intended to drink a glass of whisky before the service started. He wasn't sure why he was feeling this way; he'd spent three years preaching to the people of Hermosillo, sermons which often stretched his knowledge of Spanish to the limit, and he'd never gotten butterflies in his stomach or the clammy shakiness he was experiencing now. Back then, however, he'd been devoted to the service of God; little more than a vessel for the Lord to speak through. Now he was just a man, trying to breathe a little hope into a town beaten down by fear and oppression.

The saloon was full of people when he arrived; men, women and children all dressed in their finest clothes. Cort had left his gun belt back in the jailhouse, feeling it inappropriate to the spirit of the occasion, but not many others shared the sentiment. Most of the men were armed, including Ben, Bellows and Toby who showed up a little later. Cort had also left his sling behind. His shoulder still ached from time to time – more than usual after Kitty's latest visit - but he was too embarrassed to stand before the entire town wearing the damned thing. By the time 11 o'clock came around he'd drunk enough whisky to take the edge off his nerves, enough coffee to sharpen his wits and the words which had seemed so clumsy and hesitant on paper positively flowed with vigour and energy as soon as he began speaking. He stood on the stairs leading to the upper level of the saloon, which afforded him a fine view of his audience, and he knew his words were having an effect by the rapt expressions on people's faces. But even as he was talking there was a part of him feeling real regret. When he'd been a preacher this was what he'd liked best – addressing his congregation on Sundays, with the whole town turned out to listen, watching the impact of his words as though they were real, physical darts flying into the hearts and souls of men. He was invigorated by his message of hope, so affected by the powerful emotions present in the room that he was only dimly aware of the street door opening to emit three strangers. Ben, Bellows and Toby were standing near the back of the room and they noticed too. All three of them went over to the newcomers and after a few seconds of talk, they all went outside.

Corf forgot about it instantly and finished up his speech, receiving loud and raucous applause for his efforts. Afterwards he stood by the bar for a while, talking with well wishers and accepting the drinks they bought him. He was beginning to feel the effects of all the booze, starting to think about the Christmas dinner he'd soon be eating with Charlie Barton and his family, when Ben shouldered his way through the crowd and pulled him aside.

"We got trouble." His voice was low and urgent.

Cort cocked an eyebrow. "Those three strangers who walked in?"

Ben nodded. "Three came in, but there's twelve more of them outside."

The alcohol in Cort's system was preventing him from truly appreciating the warning in Ben's voice.

"Who are they?"

Ben frowned and counted off on his fingers. "Let's see now: we got the Marshal of Bisbee and three of his boys, we got four of Mayor Anderson's boys, the Marshal of Tucson and three of his boys, the county Sheriff and two of his boys… That makes fifteen of them. You get the picture?"

Cort wasn't sure he got it at all. "What do they want?"

"They want _you_, Cort. They've come to arrest you for shooting Tyrone Williams and they're planning on taking you back to Bisbee!"

Cort's heart started banging in his chest as he realised, with a jolt, exactly what was happening here. This was what they'd been waiting for, and it was every bit as subtle and discreet as Jack Bellows had warned. Ben nodded as he watched understanding dawn, his face reflecting Cort's feelings exactly.

"Henry Usher just made his move, Marshal, and it seems he's got every lawman in south east Arizona on his side. How we gonna deal with this?"

Cort glanced around at the crowded saloon. There were more than enough people here to back him up, and fifteen men against a whole town wasn't much of a threat however you looked at it. He suddenly wished he hadn't drunk so much whisky, he suspected it was impairing his judgement.

"What happens if we run them out of town?"

Ben shrugged. "They say they'll come back with troops and take you by force."

Cort grimaced. "I don't have too many choices, do I?"

They made their way out of the saloon but the exchange had not gone unnoticed and several people, Charlie Barton among them, came over to enquire if there was a problem. Cort figured their presence would be useful, if only as witnesses, and by the time he got outside there were at least ten men in tow.

The freezing cold air sobered him up instantly and he tried to gauge the situation. The newcomers were gathered on the porch, together with Bellows and Toby, but none of them seemed especially threatening. Cort recognised a couple of the faces – stud players from the hotel in Bisbee - and he figured them to be Mayor Anderson's boys. Another man stepped forward; tall, bearded and grizzled looking. He was wearing a marshal's badge and looking directly at Cort.

"You're Cortez Thompson?"

Cort nodded. "Who are you?"

"Billy Reynolds". The man offered his hand. "Town Marshal of Bisbee."

Cort shook. "Town Marshal of Redemption."

He felt Billy's hand go slack in his own, and he was suddenly wearing a look of extreme caution.

"You're Marshal? I figured you for the town preacher!"

Cort smiled without much humour. "Don't be fooled by appearances. Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

Billy shrugged. "You killed a man and plenty of folks seen you do it. Now we gotta take you to Bisbee and hold a trial."

Toby was standing by Cort's shoulder and he spoke up instantly. "Anyone who saw that fight knows it was fair! I saw Tyrone Williams challenge Cort, and then he cheated and got shot."

Billy nodded. "I'll put your name down as a witness, son."

Toby wasn't finished, and he sounded suspicious as hell. "No other marshal would blink an eye over a gunfight like that. Why's this one so special?"

Billy Reynolds eyed him for a moment and his hand moved towards his gun. Cort noticed how everybody in his posse followed suit. He felt the townsfolk around him tense and knew they were all doing the same thing. This could get ugly real quick and Billy was watching him intently.

"Come quietly, Marshal, or we got a real problem on our hands."

Cort nodded. "We've got a problem alright, but seems to me you're in no position to make the rules here. How about we head over to the jailhouse and talk things through?"

Billy Reynolds shrugged and his hand dropped away from his holster. "How about we do that!"


	22. Chapter 21

Ben watched Cort walking up to the jailhouse, flanked by Billy Reynolds and his deputies. After a few moments of hesitation and muttered exchanges, the rest of the posse started to follow but Bellows, Toby and the townsfolk lingered with him on the porch of the saloon. They all seemed like they were waiting on him to make a decision but Ben was bristling with indignation, agitated by the idea of fifteen men inside the jailhouse, all browbeating Cort into thinking he was their prisoner when in reality he'd done nothing to warrant arrest. He wondered how many of that posse knew why they were really here in Redemption… This scenario had nothing to do with gun fighting, everything to do with Henry Usher wanting revenge and God only knew what he'd do should he ever get Cort alone in Bisbee. Alarmed by the thought he made to follow the group of men, determined Cort shouldn't face this ordeal alone, but a hand gripping his sleeve pulled him back. It was Jack Bellows and his voice was low and full of distain.

"The Marshal of Tucson takes money from Usher, so does the county Sheriff. They got no right calling themselves lawmen but they're here on his orders; I'm guessing you already know Mayor Anderson's boys are dirty?"

Ben turned to gaze at him. "What about Billy Reynolds?"

Bellows shrugged. "Usher never mentioned him when I was around, and back in Bisbee he's working up some campaign to get Anderson thrown out of office. I doubt he's here by choice so we should keep everyone out of that jailhouse except him and his deputies."

Charlie Barton stepped up at that moment.

"What should we do, Deputy?"

Ben nodded towards the departing posse. "Make sure nobody in town talks to those men; most of them are working for Henry Usher. And make sure nobody tries to start a lynch mob either!"

Barton nodded his understanding and Ben motioned to Jack and Toby. "Let's get up there!"

They set off at a run, arcing around the group of newcomers. Snow was beginning to fall again, the wind picking up steadily and Ben hoped it might buy them a little time; not many men would be keen on leaving town in the middle of a blizzard, however urgent the business might be. He jumped up onto the porch of the Marshal's Office, Bellows and Toby right behind him, and the three of them turned to face the oncoming group. Cort just carried on walking up the steps and into the jailhouse, but Billy Reynolds pulled up.

"Something wrong, fellers?"

"Nothing's wrong." Ben kept his voice level. "But we ain't letting fifteen strangers walk into our jailhouse. You and your boys can come in and talk, Billy, but tell the rest of them to go get a drink. All the saloons are open, so's the whorehouse."

Once again there was some muttered conversation and then another man spoke up.

"How do you figure who can and can't come in, Deputy?"

He was wearing a badge but Ben couldn't tell if he was the marshal of Tucson or the county Sheriff. He folded his arms and eyed the man firmly.

"That gunfight happened in Bisbee so I reckon the local lawmen should deal with it. There's too many of you to have a proper discussion anyway."

Billy Reynolds nodded his approval and turned towards the rest of the group. "He's got a point, boys. You head back downtown and we'll join you later."

There were only a few grumbles of dissatisfaction; most of the men seemed happy to go back to the saloon and a couple peeled off from the main group as they passed the Bordello. Ben waited until they'd all cleared the street before heading into the jailhouse. Toby was passing out mugs of coffee to Billy and his deputies and Cort was nowhere to be seen. Bellows was sitting behind the desk, watching them intently, and he caught Ben's eye and tilted his head slightly in the direction of the parlour.

Ben stepped out of the office while everybody was occupied with their coffee; the four newcomers looked half frozen and they all clustered around the wood burner and sipped the hot brew appreciatively. He tapped on the parlour door and just about heard Cort's voice asking who it was. He announced himself and opened the door, uncertain what he might find, but Cort was standing by the window, gazing out at the worsening snowstorm. When he turned around his eyes were bright, glinting with something Ben couldn't read and he wondered if he'd been drinking again, though there was no bottle or glass in sight. The only thing Cort was holding was the Marshal's badge he'd removed before delivering his Christmas speech. He was turning it over in his hands, but didn't put it on. Ben watched him for a moment.

"That badge ain't gonna help us, Marshal. Most of the men in that posse are on Henry Usher's payroll and they've come to arrest you so he can get personal revenge!"

Cort nodded, a smile playing at his lips.

"Smart of him to use the same Christmas Day trick we planned, huh?" He didn't seem remotely impressed. "He thinks he's got us in a corner now but we can use it against him!"

Ben frowned, not comprehending, and Cort's smile vanished.

"I'll let those boys take me to Bisbee, as meek as you please. I'll even let them put me on trial for something we know is ridiculous, but mostly I'm going to slow them down."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Ben was totally confused now.

Cort fiddled with the badge for a few moments, like he was trying to decide something, then pinned it onto his coat.

"The storm will buy us some time and afterwards…"

Ben interrupted, unable to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Let's just run those bastards out of town; let them bring the damned cavalry if they think they can!"

Cort shook his head.

"Our letters should have arrived by now but respectable men won't come to Redemption in this weather. I need you, Jack and Toby to head for Bisbee, ride out under cover of the storm and find the men we wrote to. Tell them the truth about Usher and Gregory Furnell and make damned sure they believe you because once the trial starts, his circus will show up real quick."

He sounded half crazy and the plan way too simplistic, not to mention optimistic. Ben stared at him in disbelief.

"Without any money to give 'em they won't believe jack shit!"

"You have to try!" Cort's voice was suddenly urgent . "That preacher of theirs will help if you push him a little; they'll sit up and listen when he tells his story and we can use that trial to expose Henry Usher in front of the whole town!"

What about the posse, Cort? Those men ain't stupid and Usher might even have told them to kill you on the ride to Bisbee?"

"He'd rather see me hang, with no connection to him or his church..." Cort paused for a moment and Ben could practically see the shadow of doubt crossing his mind, but he pulled himself together quickly.

"Anyway, we've still got his money and I reckon Billy Reynolds and his boys are clean."

Ben nodded. "Are you gonna tell them the truth?"

"Maybe, when I know for sure…" Cort gazed at him, his expression inscrutable. "Be careful what you say out there, Ben."

"I'm gonna say one thing right now, Marshal: that posse ain't taking you to Bisbee alone." Ben squared his shoulders. "I'm riding with you and don't bother arguing 'cause it won't do any good. Jack and Toby can talk the priest and find those men in Bisbee; some of them will remember me from the collection gangs and that ain't gonna help us any."

He saw something approaching relief in Cort's eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat and he nodded his acceptance.

"As soon as I leave this room I'll be watched so you need to get Jack and Toby alone and tell them what to do."

He offered a lop-sided grin as he headed for the parlour door. "Tell them not to kill each other too!"

Ben suddenly got an awful premonition; like Cort was walking through that door towards certain execution, with all the dignity and humility of God's servant going to meet his maker. He was abruptly overwhelmed by emotion for the man he'd come to consider his best friend, but couldn't find any way to articulate it. There was a lump in his throat, tears pricking at his eyes and he barred the door, unwilling to let Cort leave without saying something important, but no words would come.

Cort was smiling gently, as though he knew and understood everything. "I'll be okay, Ben. You just back me up like you always do and we'll get through this."

He offered his hand and Ben gripped it. Cort pulled him closer and they embraced like brothers; standing for a few moments and trying to take strength from each other.

Jack Bellows vacated Cort's chair as they entered the office and he flopped into it, cursing and clutching at his shoulder as he did so. Toby stepped forward, frowning.

"You okay?"

Cort shook his head. "Fetch some whisky, would you?"

Toby hustled out of the room as Billy Reynolds and his three deputies came over from the wood burner. Billy sat in the chair opposite, looking dubious.

"You're injured? You didn't look hurt when you was talking in that saloon!"

Cort winced as he flexed and rotated his shoulder gently. "It got banged up pretty good in Bisbee."

Billy nodded. "How did it happen?"

Toby returned at that moment carrying a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses. He slapped them down on the desk and glared.

"Tyrone Williams did that! Him and his boys sneaked into the Blue Angel and started beating on Cort. If I hadn't gone in they would have beaten him to death!"

Billy was staring at him. "Seems I've seen your face before, son?!"

Toby scowled back at him. "I picked up glasses in that damned hotel for three months and more than my face should be familiar. I'm Tobias Furnell!"

Billy looked startled as a jackrabbit and Ben heard his boys all start muttering to each other. Billy flapped a hand to silence them. Now he looked downright suspicious.

"Gregory Furnell was a good man. The best damned mayor Bisbee ever had and a friend of mine. He spoke about you a lot, kid, told me how you was at college studying to be a doctor. Why don't you tell me how you wound up in a piss hole like Redemption, wearing a deputy's badge and working for a killer?"

Toby went rigid and Ben though he was about to punch the man. "I told you before that gunfight was fair!" He was almost spitting the words out. "If you _really_ knew my brother then you'd know our family's got honour and I'd never follow any man who's just a dirty damned murderer…"

His hands moved towards his guns. "But I'll follow Cort into hell if it comes down to it!"

Ben saw the other men tense and go for their own guns but Billy just smiled.

"Relax kid, you made your point. What were you doing in Bisbee?"

Toby's scowl deepened. "Greg didn't die by accident and I was looking for the man who killed him." He shot a sidelong glance at Ben. "I thought I'd found him but I was wrong. Now I know who really did it I'm gonna shoot that fucker dead."

Billy sat up, suddenly very attentive. "Who is it, son? I always knew there was more to Greg dying than suicide. If you know who's behind it you tell me now, you hear?"

"I ain't saying nothing." Toby stuck his chin out defiantly. "Cort's the one who should tell you, if you can bear to believe him!"

Billy's gaze swung back to Cort, who was pouring a glass of whisky.

"How about it?"

Cort didn't look up. "How about you tell me a few things first, Billy, like why half the law in Arizona's come here to arrest me?"

Billy shrugged. "That was Mayor Anderson's idea. He said you were a dangerous outlaw hiding out in a town which was even worse… I confess I'm surprised to find you got a pretty effective law keeping force here…"

Cort pushed the glass across the table. "Reckon the Mayor might have said some other things that weren't true?"

Billy took a sip of liquor. "It's no secret how I feel about that jackass but if I don't pretend to follow some of his directives, he can make things mighty tough for me and my boys."

Cort poured another whisky and sat back in his chair, watching Billy Reynolds over the rim of his glass. "Cortez Thompson _was_ a dangerous outlaw and he rode with John Herod's gang for too many years, but I've not been that man in a long time. Until Herod found me and brought me here, I was running a mission down in Hermosillo…"

He took a gulp of whisky and smiled. "I spent three years in the service of God, Marshal; how's that for surprising?"

Billy Reynolds didn't seem surprised at all, or maybe he was just a good stud player.

"It goes a way to explaining what you were doing in our church right after that gunfight. Father Reuben didn't know your name, but he was singing your praises so loud I reckon they must have reached heaven!" He leaned forward, eyeing Cort closely. "Since you're in the mood for confessions, Padre, how about you tell me why you left two men unconscious and tied up in there?"

Cort raised a nonchalant eyebrow. "The preacher didn't say?"

"No he did not." Billy scratched at his ratty beard. "It was pretty clear those cowboys were beating on him; his face was black and blue but he wouldn't tell me who they were or why you stopped them."

Cort took another mouthful of whisky. "Maybe you should ask them."

"I did!" Billy Reynolds looked thoughtful and then his gaze swivelled onto Toby; standing behind Cort and looking belligerent.

"Did those men have something to do with Greg's death, son? Is that why you're all acting so tight lipped? Or maybe it was the priest?"

Ben cursed silently. Billy Reynolds was no fool and he'd gone directly for the weakest link with the biggest mouth. He tried to catch Toby's eye, to keep him from talking but the kid flushed with anger and his eyes flashed dangerously.

"It ain't the preacher's fault so don't be blaming him, but that ministry he works for is a corrupt piece of shit and so's the fucker who runs it…"

He pulled up short, startled at what he'd just let slip, but then he just shook his head and stomped towards to street door, cursing under his breath. A couple of deputies made to stop him but Billy waved a hand and they let him pass. The door slammed and there was a long, awkward silence. Finally Billy Reynolds grinned.

"I reckon the cat's well and truly out of the bag now!" He turned to face his boys and they all grinned back, nodding their heads approvingly. Ben moved his hand slowly towards his gun and Billy addressed him without even looking over.

"Leave it, Deputy, we got no fight with you."

Cort had managed to maintain a poker face throughout the exchange and Ben wondered what he was thinking because, right now, it felt like they were balanced on a knife edge. Billy turned back to him.

"I had my doubts about Henry Usher from the moment Anderson took power. He was just a two bit stud player before Greg died, but I knew the two of them was buddies. I always reckoned it was Usher's money bought him the Mayor's job, that he was only a frontman so Usher could control Bisbee, but I couldn't prove anything."

Cort eyed him steadily. "Is Henry Usher in Bisbee?"

Billy finished his whisky and shook his head.

"He came six days after you left. He was in a big hurry and there was all sorts of comings and goings at the bank. He was only in town a couple of days but a few hours after he left all those other lawmen arrived, like they'd been camped nearby, like we wouldn't notice…"

Billy took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. "Why does everyone assume you got shit for brains, just 'cause you're wearing a marshal's badge?"

His boys all started rumbling their agreement and Cort's amused gaze flickered around them before landing back on Billy. "What happened then?"

Billy shrugged. "Anderson sent us up here and told me to arrest you on Christmas Day. He figured we'd catch you by surprise but I know it weren't his idea. He don't have the damned brain!"

Cort smiled. "That gunfight was fair, just like Toby said, and enough people saw it."

Billy nodded. "Tyrone Williams was an even bigger arsehole than the Mayor and you did Bisbee a favour that day. It made you a hero to a lot of folks and everyone who witnessed it said the same thing, so I was pretty sure you were innocent. But I also figured me and my boys were the only ones in that posse who thought so."

"You figured right, Billy Reynolds!" Jack Bellows' nonchalant drawl drifted across the office. He was leaning against the bars of the nearest cell with his arms folded. "The rest of them are in Henry Usher's pocket, even the county Sheriff."

Billy turned and gazed at Bellows for a long time. "Seems I know your face as well, mister. You fit the description of a man who made a large withdrawal from one of our banks the day of that gunfight. A man who was seen leaving town with Cortez Thompson…"

Bellows smiled insolently "Give the man a cookie!"

Reynolds continued as though he hadn't spoken. "I'm guessing that was Henry Usher's money, so why aren't we arresting you as well?"

"I thought you had it all figured out, Marshal." Bellows sounded patronising. "Usher can't arrest me for taking it because first it was legal and second, folks might get to asking why he had all that cash in a secret account in Bisbee. It's easier for him to put a man on trial for killing some arsehole in a gunfight."

That seemed to throw Billy Reynolds and he went quiet, scratching at his beard again. Cort was watching him.

"You don't have all the pieces, Billy, and without them this thing will drive you mad!"

Billy eyed him. "He wants his money back."

"For sure, and he knows we've got it." Cort's eyes were dark. "But mostly he wants to get me alone, someplace quiet with a bunch of his boys. He'll try and beat the truth out of me and if I die he'll have gotten satisfaction and saved the effort of holding a trial and hanging. If I don't…" He shrugged. "He's got Jack and Ben to chase and I'm guessing the judge will find me guilty anyway."

He took a gulp of whisky and Ben saw his hand shaking. Billy noticed too and his voice was sympathetic.

"None of that's gonna happen, Marshal!"

Cort didn't respond. His head was bowed and Ben reckoned it was the first time he'd seriously considered how badly this could all turn out. He stepped forward and topped up Cort's glass, wishing he could pour one for himself.

"We need to take this fight to Usher and holding a trial's the only way to expose him in front of enough folks to make it stick." He eyed Billy Reynolds. "We need an honest judge in the courthouse and we need to hold this posse up in Redemption for a few days while Jack and Toby ride to Bisbee and arrange some things."

Billy was staring and Ben was slightly intimidated by the fierce intelligence burning in the man's eyes.

"What do you know? Here's a ringer for the second man in that bank; the one holding the Winchester rifle, also seen leaving town with Cortez Thompson..."

His weather beaten face cracked into a grin. "I'm gonna enjoy hearing the story of how you boys all became lawmen!"

Ben nodded shortly. "You'll hear it, Marshal, but we got more important things to talk about first. Does that posse trust you?"

"I don't know about trust…" Billy chewed at his lip. "They've listened to me so far but I'll need a damned good reason to stay here any longer than necessary."

Cort looked up suddenly. "This snowstorm's reason enough; men get separated when they can't see each other and a prisoner might escape…"

Billy cocked an eyebrow. "And when it's blown out?"

Cort smiled grimly. "I'll be too sick to ride!"

Ben could almost read his mind and he snapped out a curt reply.

"It ain't gonna involve you getting hurt!"

Cort didn't acknowledge him, just carried on talking to Billy.

"Tell them you tried to arrest me but I was drunk and put up a fight."

He picked up his glass and took a bracing gulp of whisky.

"I can't act for shit so you've got to hit me for real!"

Billy looked alarmed and tried to protest but Cort motioned him to be quiet.

"Knock me out, chain me up and lock me in one of those cells. Make sure I can't ride for a couple of days, or make it look that way, then tell them you ran Jack and Toby out of town. It'll buy us some time."

Billy looked downright appalled now and his boys were all shaking their heads. Cort ignored them and the stubborn set of his jaw made it clear he wasn't about to change his mind.

"Ben needs to stay in Redemption and make sure nobody forms a lynch mob or tries to bust me out of this jailhouse, but he'll be riding with us to Bisbee."

Ben interrupted; fear and frustration making his voice harsh.

"Of all the crazy things I've heard come out of your mouth, this is the most fucked up!"

Billy's boys all muttered their agreement and Cort glanced at them. "Anyone got a better idea?"

Ben took a step closer. "No man in this room's gonna hurt you for no damned reason so you'd better come up with some kind of _sensible_ plan, Marshal!"

Cort's bleak gaze swept the office, taking in every face.

"No-one here's willing to do a little dirty work? Even to save my life?"

He was met by a wall of silence, finally broken by a familiar drawl from the back of the room.

"Not every man in this room's chicken shit!"

Jack Bellows pushed his way through the crowd of men. He went to a cupboard beside the gun rack and pulled out a set of shackles. Ben glowered at him.

"Damn you, Bellows. If you touch him I'll break your head!"

Bellows smirked. "Promises, promises…"

He approached the desk and pushed the half empty bottle of whisky towards Cort.

"Drink up, Marshal. We'll do it inside the cell so these ladies don't have to watch!"

Cort took a long draught of liquor and Ben moved towards Bellows, fists clenched, but the warning in Cort's voice stopped him.

"Butt out, Deputy, unless you're part of this?"

Bellows was watching him and although his lean face was wearing its customarily impassive mask, his eyes were glinting with something that might have been regret.

"I ain't doing this for fun, Ben. I spent five years doing things I didn't enjoy but orders are orders and sometimes you just gotta be man enough for the job!"

Ben shook his head incredulously. "You're as fucking stupid as each other!"

Bellows smiled grimly then jerked his head towards one of the cells. Cort stood up, grabbed the whisky bottle and walked towards it slowly. For the second time in one day he reminded Ben of a man making his final journey to the gallows.


	23. Chapter 22

Cort fought his way out of a restless, confused dream. He didn't know why he'd woken, or if he'd even woken at all. He was so groggy and disoriented there was a fair chance he was actually still asleep and this was all a hallucination.

It felt real enough though. His mouth was parched, his head pounding like the worst kind of whisky-induced hangover and he was burning up: his shirt and pants soaked in sweat and rivulets of perspiration running down his face and ribs. His arms and legs felt like lead, his lungs were aching and the wheeze of his own laboured breathing was loud in his ears. He opened his eyes with an effort; salt made them sting, blurred his vision and he blinked hard a few times then squinted blearily at his surroundings. There wasn't much to see: blank brick walls, bars across the window and door, a stool near his bed and a guttering candle on an upturned barrel – its flickering light making the whole scene even more disjointed and unreal.

He seemed to be inside a cell, but couldn't remember anything about events which had

brought him here. A sudden flash of recollection was gone before he could grasp it; the memories tantalizingly close but refusing to reveal themselves. Frustrated, he tried to sit up but pain exploded all over his body and he fell back onto the narrow bunk. He didn't remember getting injured, and it should have bothered him more than the fact he was currently someone's prisoner, but right now he was too sick and tired to care about either.

He waited for his heart to stop hammering in his chest before trying to sit again, more gingerly this time. He was sweating like a hog but shivering with cold and he looked about for something that might serve as a blanket. He spotted a pile of them on the floor next to the bed, all tangled and knotted up, and right after that he saw a pitcher of water standing beside the barrel. It made him realise how damned thirsty he was and suddenly it was all he could think about: his throat was on fire and only that water could put it out. He tried to stand and swiftly discovered his legs weren't strong enough to support his weight. Undeterred, he used the bed frame for support, dragged himself almost upright and managed two shaky steps across the cell before collapsing. He hit the floor hard, the room started to spin and he tasted blood in his mouth. He heard the sound of running feet and then there were voices in the room, speaking too loudly.

"Damn it, Toby, you was supposed to be watching him!"

He knew the voice, couldn't remember who it belonged to. Then a second voice, sounding scared and angry.

"I only went for a piss. I didn't know he'd choose that exact minute to wake up!"

The first voice again. "Help me get him on the bed and covered."

The hands that lifted him were gentle but the pain had gotten considerably worse, maybe a result of the fall, and he heard himself moan as he blacked out.

Next time he awoke it was to the sensation of cool moisture on his face. The sweats were gone, he felt warm and comfortable, and beneath the blankets he was naked as Adam! He opened his eyes to the red light of a sinking sun and Tobias Furnell, sitting on a stool beside his bed, holding a wet cloth and grinning.

"Welcome back, Marshal!"

"Back from where?" His voice sounded croaky and weak.

"You had fever real bad; took three days for it to break."

Cort struggled to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Wasn't he was still inside a cell, still somebody's prisoner? Toby was watching him.

"You thirsty?"

He produced a familiar looking pitcher, filled a glass, offered it to Cort's lips and he downed it in one. Toby started babbling as he poured a re-fill, and he tried to take in some of the excited monologue.

"I bet you're hungry as hell and I got soup all ready to go in the kitchen… We had to wash your clothes 'cause you was sweating so much and they didn't smell good. Don't worry if you get the taste of blood either, you bit your tongue when you fell the other night and it's gonna be sore for a while. Those other injuries need time to heal and…"

Cort reached up and grabbed Toby's shirt, which sent pain needling through his shoulder and ribs.

"Where am I? How long have I been here?"

Toby frowned and offered him the second glass of water. "You're in Bisbee, Cort, inside the jailhouse. You've been here five days…"

Cort eased himself into a half sitting position, cursing at the pain, and accepted the glass. He drank the water more slowly this time and eyed his young deputy.

"Why am I in a cell, Toby? Why do I feel like I've been beaten to shit? I don't remember much of anything right now so you'd better tell me!"

Toby looked uneasy. "It's complicated, Marshal. Best you remember for yourself. I'll go get that soup."

He was out of the cell like a bullet. Cort's stomach rumbled and he realised he was absolutely ravenous; he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten… or maybe he could. He remembered having breakfast on Christmas morning with Toby and Ben Carter, remembered looking forward to Christmas dinner with Charlie Barton and his family, though that had never panned out…

The events of that day came back to him slowly: the arrival of the posse and his crazy scheme to delay them in Redemption. Cort flinched at the memory. He remembered being full of whisky and going into a cell with Jack Bellows. Bellows had asked repeatedly if he was serious, then apologised sincerely before setting about the task efficiently. He'd known exactly where to strike, going for the part-healed injuries to Cort's ribs, kidney and shoulder. Afterwards he'd punched him in the face a couple of times, closing his left eye and splitting his lower lip, finally using the butt of his pistol to re-open the cut on his forehead.

He'd blacked out for a while and when he came round he was wearing manacles, the jailhouse was full of men from the posse and Doc Wallace was tending to him. Primed by Ben, the old man had absolutely forbidden any kind of travel until the injuries began to heal. Cort had spent two days in the cell of his own jailhouse, chained and hurting until the gang decided to ride for Bisbee. Billy Reynolds' best efforts hadn't appeased the County Sheriff for very long; he'd been impatient to leave and eventually pulled rank. The townsfolk gathered in strength to watch them depart, many looking mutinous, but nobody tried to stop them leaving. He'd managed the journey well enough on the first day, though the heavy manacles on his wrists made movement awkward and they all had to keep stopping to let him rest. But after one night sleeping in the snow he'd begun to feel dizzy and weak. The first time he'd fallen off his horse Ben had caught him before he hit the deck. The second time he banged his head on a rock. After that he didn't remember much of anything.

Cort raised a hand to his head. Sure enough there was a bandage on it. He felt around for the wound and found it just above his right ear; swollen, bruised and tender. He winced with pain as Toby came back in with a steaming bowl and eyed him sternly.

"Don't poke it, Marshal, you got a deep cut there. It was bleeding bad when that posse brought you here and I put six stitches in it myself." There was a note of pride in his voice. "You sure lost some blood and that's why you were sick for so long; you didn't have the strength to fight it."

The smell of soup was making Cort's stomach growl but the kid was in full flow and didn't show any signs of letting up.

"There was near enough a riot when they rode in with you. You made friends in this town when you shot Tyrone Williams and they was all thinking that posse did the damage to your skull. It's lucky they listened to Billy Reynolds 'cause they was about to run them other fellers out of town, lawmen or not!"

Cort didn't care about any of that right now; the savoury smell of food was driving him crazy with hunger.

"Any chance of getting that soup before it goes cold, Deputy?"

Toby went a little red. "Damn it, I'm sorry. I just thought you'd want to hear the news." He squatted down on the stool beside the bed. "You want me to feed you?"

Cort shook his head, embarrassed. "I can feed myself."

Toby gave him the bowl and he dug in. The kid watched him eat in silence, fetched him a second bowl and some bread in due course and only when his belly was full did he feel able to turn his attention back to the business in hand.

"Did you and Jack talk to those men here in town?"

Toby nodded, his eyes bright. "Sure we did, we talked to most of them. They'd all got the letters but hell, they took some convincing, especially since we didn't have any money to show 'em. When Ben got here he had an idea of gathering them all together, so's they could see how many was involved in the blackmail scheme and compare stories. We had a secret meeting outside of town and they all showed up. Some of them recognised Ben from the old days but seeing as how he was wearing a badge and working for you, they let him live."

He barked out a laugh. "We took that preacher with us and if he hadn't spoken up I don't think they'd ever have believed what we were saying." He leaned forward, excitement glinting in his eyes. "You want to hear the best part? Eight of those men are sitting on the jury at your trial!"

Cort's stomach twisted. He'd somehow managed to forget about the trial. "Who's the judge?"

Toby's face darkened. "Some bastard's ridden up from Tucson and you can bet your life he's on Usher's payroll…"

He pulled up short, horrified at what he'd just said. "Hell, Cort, I didn't mean it like that!"

Cort smiled at his discomfort. "The verdict's not important, Toby. This is about getting Usher into that courthouse and letting the whole town know about him. Has he arrived yet?"

"He won't come until they fix a date for the trial." Toby grinned. "You can't try a man who's unconscious with fever."

"What happened to that posse?"

Toby shrugged. "Most of 'em went to Tucson, but I reckon they'll be back."

Cort was certain of it. "Where are Ben and Jack?"

Toby began collecting up the empty dishes. "Usher's got eyes here so they're keeping a low profile. They're camped outside of town and watching the roads but they come here most nights to see how you're doing. Ben's real worried about you…"

He eyed Cort with keen interest. "It don't seem like they're getting on right now, but they won't say why."

Cort gazed at him. "You shouldn't be here either, Toby. Billy was supposed to tell that posse he'd run you out of Redemption."

Toby shrugged. "So what if I rode to Bisbee? I lived here long enough for it to make sense. Henry Usher's got no problem with me yet, and Billy's made me one of his deputies so I got the law behind me."

Cort felt a twang of resentment. What was Billy Reynolds doing co-opting his own man? It made sense though, offered Toby some kind of protection, and he struggled to shake off the feeling.

"When Ben and Jack get here tonight I want to see them. Wake me if I'm asleep, you hear?"

Toby looked doubtful. "You need all the sleep you can get, Marshal. You rest now and I'll be right back."

He left the cell and Cort settled back onto the pillow. He was drowsy and figured he'd take a short nap then wake up in good time for the meeting. As it turned out, it was another two days before he got to see his deputies and he spent most of that time sleeping. There was always somebody in the cell with him when he woke, no matter what time of day or night, and it was usually Toby or Billy Reynolds. They attended to his bodily needs but refused to wake him up unnecessarily, despite his arguments and protests, and his spells of consciousness never seemed to coincide with Ben and Jack's visits.

Finally, a whole week after arriving in Bisbee, he felt strong enough to venture out of bed. He took a long bath in Billy's tub, Toby put a clean bandage on his head and his laundered clothes were returned. The physical injuries to his body had reduced to stiffness and a dull ache, he was eating like a horse and not sleeping so much. Nevertheless, sitting up late into the night to await the arrival of his fugitive deputies was something of an ordeal. He was tired and drank a gallon of strong, bitter coffee to keep awake. Toby, Billy and a couple of his boys were in the office with him, drinking whisky and steadfastly refusing to give him even one glass of liquor on account of his condition. Billy's jailhouse was about twice the size of his own, with a worn and weathered look about it and dozens of wanted posters tacked to the walls. Cort recognised a few of the likenesses staring at him, was a little surprised not to see his own among them and he stifled a yawn and glanced at his pocket watch. It was a little after 2am and the narrow bunk in his cell seemed very inviting indeed.

Just as his eyes were beginning to droop, he heard boots outside and then Jack Bellows and Ben Carter came through the door. Ben's face lit up when he saw Cort, but it instantly darkened into a disapproving scowl and Cort figured he'd still not forgiven him for electing to get beaten up. Bellows simply nodded at him, his face revealing nothing. Both looked cold and dishevelled and Billy poured whisky for them as they took seats near the wood burner. Cort noticed how they didn't sit too close to each other.

Bellows took an appreciative sip from his glass. "How you feeling, Marshal?"

He smiled. "I'm okay, Deputy."

Ben shot them both an evil look. "No thanks to you, Bellows, you son of a bitch!"

Bellow took another casual sip. "Ain't my fault you're prissy, Ben Carter, so don't be railing at me!"

Ben's face got red and Cort interrupted before he could say anything.

"Jack was following orders, Ben. It's me you should be pissed at, not him."

Ben glared. "I'm pissed at you, Marshal, be sure of that."

He noticed Toby following the exchange keenly, and knew it wouldn't be long before the kid figured it all out. Fortunately, Billy Reynolds stepped into the fray.

"All that's in the past, fellers. Cort's making a fine recovery and that trial date's gonna be set real quick now. We got to start looking to the future and we can't do it with everybody fighting!"

Ben bit his tongue and Cort glanced around at the other men in the room. "It's my understanding the judge is on Usher's payroll but eight of the jurymen are with us. I'm guessing those men will get a visit from a collection gang and encouraged to find me guilty. I'm hoping they'll be strong enough to believe in us and resist."

Bellows nodded. "That's about the size of it. They're decent men and angry as hell right now. So are the other twenty we talked with. They're all gonna be that courthouse and ready to give evidence."

"I'm gonna testify." Ben seemed to be making a real effort to keep his voice civil. "Jack and Toby as well. Charlie Barton's promoted himself to mayor and he rode up from Redemption with his council. They all want to stand as character witnesses."

Cort whistled softly. "This could turn into the longest trial in history!"

Toby butted in. "None of that's worth a damn if Henry Usher ain't here. Somebody needs to telegraph Tucson and tell him to get moving!"

Billy Reynolds glanced at him. "Tomorrow I'll inform the judge our prisoner's fit to stand trial. I reckon he'll set a date that gives Usher time to get here, and I'm pretty certain he'll make sure the man is notified."

Cort nodded. "Half this town is onto Henry Usher but we can't let him suspect anything's wrong. We need to let him do exactly as he pleases, even if we don't like it. Once he's inside that courthouse, it's a different story…"

Ben interrupted, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "Exactly as he pleases? What the hell does that mean, Marshal?"

He shot Ben an appeasing smile. "I won't hand myself over to him, Deputy, but if he wants to talk, or try to save my soul inside this jailhouse then we're gonna let him. I need to hear anything he's got to say."

Ben looked relieved and Cort noticed how tired he looked.

"Are you alright? It must be tough camping in this weather."

Ben shrugged. "We got a cave, a fire and whisky aplenty, but I'm sick of waiting around all day and watching a road hardly anyone's travelling right now."

"And he's sick of my company." Jack Bellows sounded amused but his face was deadpan. "I can't think why."

Ben glared at him. "I'm sick of your dumb ideas and constant bellyaching, Bellows. That cave ain't big enough for us both."

Bellows grinned. "A cat may look at a king…"

Ben surged to his feet, fists clenched and face flushed. Cort was about to say something but realised he'd probably be wasting his breath. He figured it best to let them fight it out and Billy seemed to feel the same way.

"You fellers need to settle your differences and be sure you do it outside of town limits. The way you're acting will fuck our plans royally and it's your Marshal's life on the line here!"

Cort struggled to his feet. His head had started to pound and his back was aching. All he wanted to do right now was sleep and he eyed his deputies wearily.

"I don't want to find myself on a scaffold with a rope round my neck because you two can't work together, so do something about it and start acting like god damned lawmen!"

Ben tensed and stared at him intently. Bellows gazed at something interesting on the floor and didn't look up. Neither said a word.

"I'm going to bed now. Make sure you work things out by morning."

He made his way to the cell, certain his whirling thoughts and the boisterous conversation coming from the office would keep him from sleeping. But then his head hit the pillow and he went out like a light.


	24. Chapter 23

Toby started awake from a shallow sleep and his right hand moved instantly to the Colt on his hip. He peered around the dimly lit cell for whatever had woken him, and quickly realised it was Cort, twitching and moaning on the bunk. As usual he'd kicked off all his blankets and Toby leaned across to recover the tangled mess. As he spread them back across the bed and its occupant, Cort began making choking sounds and the twitching intensified. Toby prodded him gently which was usually enough to shake him out of the dream without waking him, and Cort grunted, mumbled something incoherent, rolled onto his side and settled into a more peaceful sleep.

As Cort's health and strength returned so did more regular sleep patterns, though he still tired easily. He'd been sleeping restlessly for six days though, ever since the late-night meeting with Ben and Bellows in fact. During his waking hours he was quiet and stoic; he had free run of the jailhouse but spent most of his time in the cell, reading whatever books Toby could find to bring him and drinking too much coffee. He had no shortage of visitors – Father Reuben from the church dropped by several times, so did Randy Quirrell, Toby's old boss from the Blue Angel hotel, and Charlie Barton came in every day with stirring words of encouragement. Then there were the concerned townsfolk, women mainly, who attempted to gain access on a daily basis and were turned away routinely. Ben Carter sat with him for a while every night, watching him intently as he slept, but refused to wake him and if Cort showed any signs of waking on his own, he got out of there like a bullet. Toby prayed they'd straighten things out before the trial started but time was running out: it started in two days!

After some persistent prompting, Billy Reynolds had put him in the picture about events in Redemption which caused the damaging rift and Toby flinched as he'd learned how Cort's sickness was mostly his own undertaking. He was damned glad he hadn't been in that jailhouse to witness the beating and completely understood why Ben was so angry. Toby was a little pissed himself but ultimately Cort's sacrifice had got them what they needed, and now was definitely not the time to be harbouring grudges.

Even Ben and Jack Bellows had managed to settle their differences and while the atmosphere between them was still a little frosty, it felt like they were operating as a team. Cort was always asleep when they visited and though Toby passed on news of their reconciliation, he wasn't sure Cort believed it. Everybody present in the jailhouse on the night of the meeting had seen his reaction to their squabbling; he'd tried to hide it but he looked shit scared, acutely aware that if anything went wrong with their plan, which was tenuous at best, he'd pay for it with his life. The dreams had started right afterwards and although he'd never talk about it, Toby knew the recurring nightmare was one of being hanged.

He yawned, shifted in his chair and dug out his pocket watch, holding it close to the candle to see the time. It was just after midnight. Cort didn't really need a nurse anymore, he could eat, drink and piss for himself just fine, but Toby had gotten used to watching over him at night. It meant he got little sleep himself but he could deal with that and usually napped during the day. The truth was that he seldom left the jailhouse and sometimes felt as much a prisoner as Cort was. He was the only one of Redemption's deputies who could move freely around Bisbee, but he had a nagging suspicion his testimony in the courthouse would be more convincing if he kept a low profile. Billy Reynolds had made him a deputy marshal to offer him protection, but he wanted to stand before the judge and jury as Gregory Furnell's brother, not a lawman.

And besides, somebody needed to guard and protect Cort. He certainly had a lot of friends in Bisbee, but also some powerful enemies and Toby wouldn't put it past them to sneak into the jailhouse and murder him as he slept. Billy kept the place locked up tight and there was always a deputy on duty out in the office, but Henry Usher was in town now and anything was possible.

He'd ridden quietly into Bisbee two nights ago, accompanied by a small group of armed personnel, and immediately holed up at the most expensive hotel in town. Toby wasn't sure how many people knew he was there, but Billy Reynolds kept the place watched constantly, although the only visitor so far was Mayor Anderson, which was no surprise to anyone. The marshal of Tucson and county Sheriff had arrived the day after Usher's group and now they were out and about, acting as his eyes and ears. They'd come to the jailhouse yesterday to check on the prisoner and everybody helped put on a show for them. They'd chained Cort's wrists and locked him in his cell, as though he were violent and dangerous, and he'd played the part to perfection – snarling and spitting curses at the lawmen, ranting and railing, eventually ramming himself into the bars separating them and falling to the floor, stunned. They'd walked out looking shaken but when Toby charged into the cell, fearing the worse, Cort looked up at him and grinned.

"Reckon we fooled them, Deputy?"

"Reckon you did, Marshal."

Toby smiled at the memory and glanced across at Cort, who was sleeping peacefully for the moment. He made a decision: when Ben arrived later he'd find a way to get him into this cell; drag him in if necessary. Cort needed to be confident in the courthouse, needed to know he had a united army behind him and he couldn't do that if his closest friend wasn't speaking to him.

He settled back into his chair, propped his feet up on the edge of Cort's bunk and closed his eyes, figuring he'd doze until Ben and Bellows arrived. A plan was beginning to form in his mind and he smiled. It was all going to work out.

Ben Carter's legs felt like lead and it was becoming increasingly difficult to place one foot in front of the other. He was heartily sick of living like an animal; constantly cold, hungry and dirty, bored out of his mind one moment, tense and irritable the next, sleeping badly in spite of staying up late every goddamn night in order to sneak into Bisbee… Horses were out of the question – too noisy and visible, particularly in the small hours of the morning – and it was a long, chilly, uphill trek from the cave to town. The snow, which still hadn't gotten around to melting, made progress slow and treacherous and Jack Bellows always pushed the pace, apparently oblivious to the conditions. It rankled Ben that he struggled to keep up with the older man, though he'd never let on, and while he was dreading the start of the trial on one hand, he was also counting down the days eagerly. Once it was over he could get a decent night's sleep in a proper bed, or maybe he'd be dead. Either way it would be peaceful.

The outskirts of Bisbee came into view and he wondered if Cort might be awake for their visit tonight, since there was some promising news to deliver. He and Bellows had spent most of the day sneaking between the homes of the various men of the jury who, as expected, had received threatening visits from Usher's blackmail gang – instructing them to find the accused man guilty of murder or face exposure. None of them seemed prepared to do that; they'd found strength in each other's company and their various sins seemed somewhat paltry when compared to those of Usher. Most had already admitted them to the people who mattered most and they even seemed to have forgotten about the money promised to them, though Cort would be sure to remind them…

Ben knew he was the one who needed to try and make peace. Cort had been through too much recently and while it was easy to keep pretending he was mad with his friend for acting like a jackass in Redemption, in truth he was angry and disappointed with himself – for not having the guts to intervene or the brains to come up with a better plan. He'd left the jailhouse just after Cort and Bellows went into the cell, knowing if he stuck around things would get even uglier, and he'd gone to fetch Doc Wallace. By the time they'd returned it was all over – his best buddy was hurt and unconscious and he felt guilty beyond belief.

Then he'd had keep calm enough to explain the rest of Cort's plan to the man who'd injured him and the kid who'd spilled the beans on Usher. To their credit – probably because they felt similar guilt - neither wasted time with questions or arguments and there was an implicit understanding between himself and Bellows that Toby shouldn't know exactly how Cort was holding up the posse. The kid idolised him and it wouldn't help matters to tell him what his new riding companion had just done. Ben brought Toby's stuff down from the jailhouse while Bellows gathered provisions and they left town just before the snowstorm blew itself out. Ben went down to the saloon to inform the men of the posse and he stayed there for the rest of the day, getting royally drunk.

Things weren't any better during the ride to Bisbee. Cort wasn't strong enough to make the journey but he'd been given no choice in the matter. He'd been white as a ghost when the Sheriff's men hauled him out of his cell and put him on a horse, and he was stiff and awkward in the saddle, every lurch or mis-step of the animal bringing a wince of pain. Ben stayed close, though not close enough to hold any meaningful conversation, and stopped the party every time Cort began to sag and sway. He ate virtually nothing all day and when they eventually stopped to camp, long after dusk, he'd pretty much passed out by the fire. The posse kept an armed guard on him all night but he didn't stir once. Ben sat all night too, right next to him, worried somebody might try to stick a knife under their ribs as they slept. He piled all his blankets on top of Cort's own, trying to keep him warm but by morning he was flushed, feverish and red eyed. He was in no condition to ride but once again he'd had no choice. Ben rode right alongside him this time, one hand gripping his coat to keep him upright. However, a minor distraction was all it took for him to slacken his hold and a moment later Cort had keeled over sideways, fallen off the horse and smashed his head against a rock.

The amount of blood was horrifying. Cort was out cold and oblivious but the wound wouldn't stop bleeding, despite the makeshift bandages they applied, and it quickly soaked through the pieces of rough cloth. They best they could do was tie him across the saddle of his horse then ride hard for Bisbee and a proper doctor. By the time they got to town Cort had bled all over the animal. Ben noted the shocked, angered expressions on the faces of Bisbee's residents and he could understand that – a chained, bleeding man, tied to a horse and surrounded by a large, armed gang didn't look good. An ugly, hostile crowd gathered to watch them carry the prisoner into the marshal's office and only Billy Reynolds' considerable diplomatic skills stopped a riot breaking out.

Toby turned up about a minute after the men from the posse left the jailhouse. They'd unchained Cort, laid him in one of the cells and Ben was kneeling beside his bunk, holding a cloth to the still-bleeding wound and listening to Billy speculate on which doctor was best to use. Toby had charged in and pushed them aside, probing Cort's head carefully and when he finally glanced up the look he shot them was one of pure evil.

"Who did this to him?"

The tone of his voice implied they were somehow responsible and Ben shook his head, irritated.

"It's not what you think…"

"The hell it's not!" Toby glared. "You were supposed to be protecting him, Ben, so how the hell did his head get bashed in?"

"He fell off his horse, son." Billy's voice was calm and a little supercilious. "And he'd have done it a lot sooner if Ben hadn't been holding onto him."

Toby's eyes narrowed. "Why'd he fall off his horse?"

Ben took a step closer to the bunk, gazed down at the pale, lifeless figure and his stomach twisted.

"He was getting sick; fever I reckon. He should never have been riding but that damned posse didn't care. If he dies I swear I'll put a bullet in the county sheriff's head!"

Toby placed a hand on Cort's forehead. "He ain't gonna die but he's burning up. We need to get his fever down, stitch that cut and..."

Billy interrupted him curtly. "We need to call a doctor, son!"

Toby glared at him. "I _am_ a doctor, Mister, and I'm the only one who's gonna take care of him!"

Illness and concussion kept Cort pretty much unconscious for five days but, according to Billy Reynolds, Toby barely left his side. Ben spent the whole time fretting; he wanted to be close to them but couldn't stay in Bisbee. There were too many people in town who knew him, he suspected a couple of men from the posse among them, and he had to keep reminding himself that although Henry Usher was attempting to make an example of Cortez Thompson, he'd be equally happy to get his hands on Benedict Carter. Jack Bellows felt pretty much the same way so they'd holed up in a cave together, never talking except to fight and throw accusations, and spending long, dull days watching the road into town.

"Pick it up Ben, let's try and get there before dawn!"

Bellow's voice knocked him out of his reverie and he realised they were close to the jailhouse. They tapped out their usual signal on the back door and waited while the various bolts and locks were released. The place was locked up like a fortress and tonight it was Billy Reynolds who greeted them. They followed him into the office and he sat down to a beat up ledger on his desk, writing an entry in neat, careful script. Bellows went straight over to the wood burner and Ben gazed around the big, empty office. Billy addressed him without looking up.

"Kid's out back with Cort if you need him?"

He felt a tremor of surprise. "Cort's awake?"

Billy glanced up at him, his expression inscrutable. "I doubt it."

Ben helped himself to a cup of coffee and perched on the side of the desk.

"How is he?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Billy's attention was back on the ledger.

Jack Bellows' sardonic voice floated over. "The girls ain't talking again, Billy, or didn't you notice?"

Ben ignored him and Billy eyed them both. "Cort's gotten real agitated about that trial, nightmares and such…"

That wasn't surprising; Ben had dreamed about it himself a few times.

"Give him some of your whisky, Billy." Bellows sounded serious. "It'll calm his nerves."

Billy smiled bleakly. "It won't help him none."

The idea of liquor was attractive and Ben headed for the cupboard where Billy kept his bottles. A new voice stopped him before he got there.

"We got to talk, Ben."

He turned around. Toby was standing by the door of the passage which led to the cells and he looked determined as hell. Ben raised an expectant eyebrow."

"Whenever you're ready…"

Toby shook his head. "In private."

Bellows and Billy Reynolds were wearing knowing expressions, as though there was a conspiracy going on and he felt a surge of irritation. He grabbed a bottle and followed Toby down to Cort's cell. Toby stood aside to let him enter and he placed the whisky on the barrel then approached the bunk. Cort seemed peaceful enough - the bandage was finally gone from his head and his breathing was easy but Ben didn't feel a whole lot better. He still blamed himself for most of this…

Cort stirred and murmured something. Ben wondered why Toby wasn't talking and a moment later he found out. The door to the cell slammed shut with an ear-shattering clang and he spun round to see a key being turned in the lock. He bounded over to the bars, trying to grab Toby's shirt, but the kid sprang away from his floundering grasp.

"Unlock it now, you son of a bitch!"

Toby shook his head. "You ain't coming out 'til you talk with Cort!"

Ben stared at him, bewildered. "About what?"

Toby came closer, though Ben still couldn't reach him, and lowered his voice. "He's dreaming about getting hanged and I reckon you're the cause. He don't know where he is with you anymore, Ben, and that ain't good when his life's on the line."

Ben's stomach twisted; he had no idea their estrangement was having such an effect. Toby nodded smugly, spun on his heel and marched back towards the office.

After several moments of tense contemplation, Ben turned away from the bars and glanced at the bunk. Cort hadn't moved but nobody could have slept through the banging of the door. A moment later he saw Cort's eyes glint in the candlelight and he reached for the whisky, feeling awkward as hell with no idea how to start any kind of conversation. Cort hauled himself upright and pulled the blankets around his midriff. Ben offered him the bottle but he shook his head, watching silently.

"How you feeling, Marshal?"

"Better."

"Toby says you ain't sleeping so good."

Cort shrugged and Ben's heart began racing. This wasn't going to be easy. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"I got things settled with Bellows; did it without killing him, too!" He laughed nervously.

"I heard."

Ben took a gulp of whisky, eyeing Cort over the top of the bottle. He just sat there, wearing an inscrutable expression, like he was expecting something to happen.

"Henry Usher's in town..."

"I know."

Ben's patience ran out abruptly and he banged the bottle down on the barrel. "Dammit Cort, if you got nothing to say then call Toby and tell him to let me out of this cell."

Cort's left eye twitched a little. Ben realised that perhaps he wasn't quite as composed as he seemed.

"I got better things to do than talk to myself all night, so if something's bugging you then spit it out!"

Cort chewed on his lip and when he eventually spoke he sounded wary and cautious. "Everything I do makes you mad, Ben. Now you're pissed 'cause I'm not talking but I'm sick to death of fighting with you and that's the truth."

It only served to fuel Ben's irritation and he was about to retort rudely when he realised he was behaving exactly as Cort expected. With a huge effort of will, and more whisky, he got his temper under control. He squatted on the end of the bunk and gazed at Cort, choosing his words carefully and deliberately.

"I feel as close to you as a brother, Cort, and I hate it when you're hurt and bleeding. When I see you're scared and pretending nothing's wrong, or dreaming up crazy plans I get mad because I want to help but you're too damned pig-headed to listen to anyone except yourself!" He pH He paused to suck in a shaky breath. "Toby worships you and Bellows does anything you ask, but somebody needs to tell you when you're being a jackass and you need to start paying attention!"

Cort offered only a tight-lipped smile. Ben thrust the whisky bottle towards him and this time he accepted, taking a tentative sip of liquor. It was a beginning, of sorts, and he seized the moment.

"Don't be fretting about that trial on my account. I'll protect you, even if it comes down to bullets, and most of that jury's still on our side."

Cort looked dubious. "Don't underestimate Henry Usher. He wants me bad and he wants you as well!"

"Once we get him in that courthouse he'll have no place to hide." Ben eyed him with mock severity. "You quit dreaming about hangings, you hear? Most of Bisbee's rooting for you so you got no cause to worry!"

Cort took another sip of whisky, grimaced and handed the bottle back. "I don't remember much about getting here, but Billy says you watched over me the whole time. I appreciate that."

Ben shrugged. "I still let you fall off that damned horse!"

"Don't blame yourself, Ben. It was my own fault I got sick like that."

The overwhelming sense of relief didn't last for long. Cort's eyes were beginning to droop and Ben felt bone weary himself. He wanted nothing more than to bunk in the cell next door but it was out of the question.

"You should sleep, Marshal." He stood up, dreading the long walk back to the cave. "Are we straight now?"

Cort smiled. "I'm glad you're back, Deputy."

Henry Usher pulled back the curtain of his hotel room and watched Mayor Anderson pick his way along the dark, icy road outside; finally heading home after a long and profitable meeting. He drained his glass of bourbon – not the finest quality but all the town of Bisbee had to offer – and smiled as Anderson slipped and nearly fell flat on his arse. The man was an idiot, but he had his uses and was also an important, influential witness. The trial of Cortez Thompson was just over a day away and Usher's pulse quickened at the prospect of watching him squirming in the dock and then swinging on the end of a rope. From reports he'd received, Thompson was acting exactly like the man Usher always knew him to be; a violent, dangerous animal who, by necessity, was kept in chains and locked in a cell for everybody's protection. He'd somehow gotten hurt in Redemption, gotten sick during the ride to Bisbee, and Usher found that immensely satisfying. Thompson deserved to suffer for his crimes, not least the matter of 405,000 stolen dollars which he was determined to get back, even though the man responsible was destined to hang. The trial was only a formality, but Usher hoped the accused might be persuaded to reveal the location of the cash in exchange for leniency, though none would ultimately be forthcoming.

He lit a cigar and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Thompson was no fool and probably wouldn't talk, but it didn't matter. Ben Carter and Jack Bellows were still out there and they'd be hunted down and forced to hand over the money. He knew the two of them had stolen it from the bank, cursed himself every day for not killing Jack Bellows when he had the chance, but Thompson was the one who'd planned it all. Treacherous cowards that they were, they'd behaved predictably and deserted him in his hour of need; leaving him to the mercy of the rope in order to save their own sorry necks. They might be spending that cash right now and it perturbed Usher slightly, but even if he never got it back he'd always have the memory of Thompson's execution as compensation. There were plenty of opportunities opening up in Arizona right now – men with new found wealth from the railroad or silver mines, flushed with success and easily misled… It wouldn't take long to earn it all back again.

Usher refilled his glass with bourbon from the fancy bottle on the table. This would be his last drink before retiring for the night. Tomorrow morning he intended to visit the jailhouse and speak with Cortez Thompson privately. Father Reuben had visited several times and informed him the prisoner was beyond redemption, but the town marshal would surely not prevent a more senior member of the church attempting to save a doomed man's soul. He prayed to God Thompson would be properly restrained throughout their encounter, though he was certain a few dollars in Billy Reynolds' pocket would buy him the security he craved.

That aside, he was looking forward to the meeting with great anticipation.


	25. Chapter 24

Cort struggled to keep his attention on the book he was holding. It wasn't an engaging read – Toby was running low on material to bring him - and his mind kept wandering off the page. In addition the breakfast he'd eaten an hour ago was lying heavy on his stomach and he was drowsy, which made it even harder to concentrate. Toby was still giving him what seemed like double the portion everyone else got, insisting it would help him recuperate, and he made damned sure every last morsel on the plate was eaten. Cort felt just fine, had done for days, and he strongly suspected the extra food was only expanding his waistline now. He wasn't used to being so inactive, hated being cooped up in the jailhouse all day and night with nothing to do except read or listen to Billy and his boys discuss the imminent trial, but he had no choice. He was nervous and trying not to think about the courthouse. Even though they'd done everything in their power to prepare and had a lot of decent men on their side, the outcome was by no means certain. Should the worst transpire though, he knew Ben Carter would be there with his Remington and that was all the reassurance he needed.

He didn't much fancy going back to the life of an outlaw, hounded and hunted from state to state, but it was infinitely better than a trip to the gallows. He wasn't prepared to die so Henry Usher could prove a point and, should Usher manage to wriggle his way out of the rudimentary trap they'd laid for him, his life's mission would be to hunt the bastard down and bring him to justice. The 400,000 dollars currently buried outside Redemption would certainly help in that cause, but Cort knew he couldn't use it. It belonged to other men and needed returning to them as soon as possible.

He was immensely relieved Ben had finally made peace and knew how difficult it had been for him. He didn't care to admit how much he relied on his deputy and valued their friendship, but during the time they weren't talking he'd been agitated and edgy. The rift between them was always on his mind and consequently his sleep was restless and shallow, frequently interrupted by nightmares. Last night he'd slept soundly for the first time in a week and Toby had trouble waking him up, even for breakfast.

Cort jerked his attention back to the book, still as dull as ditch water, and reached for the mug of coffee on the floor by his bunk. It was empty and he murmured a curse. With the trial less than 24 hours away, excessive caffeine wasn't the smartest move – too much of it, coupled with the adrenaline already pulsing through his body meant he'd be climbing the walls pretty soon but he didn't care. He needed something to stay occupied and hauled himself to his feet, heading for the main office and hoping for a refill. He figured he'd ask Billy for a little whisky to put in it this time, just to help him relax, though it was barely ten o'clock.

The dark, narrow passage leading from the cells to the office was about fifteen feet long. It served to keep the Marshal's business private from his prisoners and was extremely effective in that respect. Unless things got really rowdy, Colt seldom heard any noise and he was beginning to think his jailhouse in Redemption might benefit from a small redesign… As he approached the door he heard the usual gruff conversation in the office – Billy and a couple of his deputies – but there was a new voice among them this time and that was decidedly odd. Billy rarely let anybody into the jailhouse unless they were known and trusted, and the sound of a stranger made Cort stiffen and push himself against the cold stone wall of the passage, straining his ears to catch what was being said.

He couldn't hear much of anything but there seemed to be a debate in progress and it went on for a long time. Eventually he heard boots coming his way and he scuttled back down the passage and into his cell, throwing himself onto the bunk and shoving his hands behind his head nonchalantly, like he'd been there the whole time.

Billy Reynolds arrived seconds later, looking edgy as hell. A few of his boys were following, one of them holding a set of manacles and Cort's heart began pounding. He stared at Billy, trying his best to appear calm.

"What's the occasion?"

Billy stepped into the cell and approached cautiously.

"I got Henry Usher in my office. He's reckons he's come to save your soul."

Cort eyed the restraints. "What are those for?"

Billy smiled grimly. "He's scared of you, Cort. He gotten reports about how crazy you're acting and he wants you chained for his own protection."

Cort frowned. "What if he's carrying a gun?"

Billy shook his head. "He'll get searched real thorough before we let him in and take a look at this!"

He pulled a crisp fifty dollar bill from his pocket. "He didn't say nothing upfront, but seems he might be hoping for something more…"

It took Cort a moment to figure out what he meant, and he was suddenly glad Ben was a long way off. He sat up slowly.

"I'm done with getting hurt, Billy. I need my wits for that trial tomorrow."

A wry grin was pulling at Billy's lips. "We can still give him what he wants. You just remember what you did for the county sheriff and do it again. Me and the boys'll make it sound like a royal riot's going down and you're on the losing end."

Cort smiled. In truth he'd enjoyed playing the part of a wild, desperate outlaw in front of the lawmen. He had plenty of experience to draw from and it hadn't really felt like acting – he'd just opened certain parts of his mind, the parts he usually kept locked up tight, and they were happy enough to find temporary freedom.

He got to his feet and nodded at Billy. "Let's do it!"

Henry Usher walked down the long, dark passageway with caution, still smarting from the humiliation of being searched by a deputy marshal. The man had been extraordinarily thorough in his pursuit of hidden weapons, and none of the usual arguments about being a church representative carried any weight. Usher didn't understand why the deputy was so concerned for the welfare of a common murderer. The way he saw it, if a man were to sneak into Cortez Thompson's cell and shoot him dead they'd be doing the town of Bisbee a huge favour. But he wasn't that man and the deputy's search had revealed nothing except a small bible, a leather wallet and a silk handkerchief.

Billy Reynolds was somebody Usher could get to like. He'd accepted the fifty dollar bill with a knowing smirk and taken three men along with him to restrain the prisoner properly. Usher had listened with relish to the holy commotion coming from the cells and then they'd all returned, tidying their clothes and wiping their brows. Billy had informed him it was safe to proceed and then granted him the privacy he'd requested.

The cells came into view – four of them in total; dim, gloomy little cages with tiny windows and narrow bunks; all comprising three red brick walls with a row of bars making up the fourth. All of them were empty save the one directly ahead, and its door was securely locked and bolted. Usher could see a man's shape in the far corner; he was on his knees, head bowed low and he was wearing manacles on his wrists. Usher approached the bars and stood for a long moment, listening to the sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses with a certain amount of pleasure. Eventually he cleared his throat and the man jerked his head up, piercing him with a murderous glare.

"Was it your idea to have those bastards beat me again?"

Thompson's voice sounded ragged and the effort of talking seemed to hurt because he clutched at his ribs and cursed some more. He was pretty much as Usher remembered him – though wilder looking with a mane of long, shaggy hair, several days of beard growth and some fading bruises on his face. His instincts were right on the money, but Usher just smiled benignly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Thompson struggled to his feet and stood with his shoulder braced against the wall, as though for support. He glowered from under his fringe.

"You could have saved yourself some money. Billy Reynolds does this kind of thing for fun!"

Usher shrugged. "I'm sure the Marshal's only doing what's necessary to keep his town safe from a dangerous criminal."

Thompson spat on the floor by way of response.

"Don't bother trying to save my soul, Usher. I know where I'm going but I'll tell you something; you're headed for a deeper place than me!"

Usher shook his head sadly. "I usually tell a doomed man his soul might be redeemed if he admits to his sins and repents, but yours is beyond saving. Any man who poses as a priest to hide his crimes is undeserving of God's forgiveness."

Thompson just sniggered and came closer to the bars, limping heavily. Usher took a nervous step back before realising there was a chain running from the manacles on his wrists. It was attached to an iron hoop embedded in the wall and it pulled him up, with a snarl and a curse, when he was still several feet away. He fought the restraints for a while, tugging and twisting the chain while obscenities rained from his lips. Eventually he fell silent and turned his attention back to eHUsher.

"I had you fooled though. Henry Usher, the supreme man of God in this territory, so convinced by my holy act that he offered me a job in his goddamned ministry!"

He barked out a laugh which immediately turned into a fit of coughing. Usher felt his face redden slightly.

"I knew you couldn't keep it up, Thompson. When a man's no better than a dog he can't help but revert to type. I only feel sorry for the folks in Hermosillo who believed your bullshit."

Thompson wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then licked his lips.

"Don't feel sorry for 'em; plenty of pretty girls got to experience God's work first hand, and I didn't hear any complaints."

He leered and Usher felt revolted by the shameless display of vulgarity. "How many of them did you rape?"

Thompson laughed again, a little less riotously this time. "I've never paid for a whore in my life and I sure as hell don't need to rape a woman. They throw themselves at me and I generally find myself in a position of accordance."

Usher was getting impatient. He hadn't come here to listen to bragging and bravado. God knew it had taken enough effort to get to the jailhouse unrecognised and he didn't want this visit to be in vain.

"I didn't come here to preach, Thompson, you're not worth it. I came to offer you mercy – a fast trial and a quick death if you co-operate."

Thompson sniffed and eyed him with a marked lack of interest. "You're sure I'll be found guilty then? I reckon you must have slipped that judge a few dollars too..."

Usher's stomach twisted but he forced himself to remain impassive. Thompson had no way of knowing the judge was on his payroll; this was just a desperate man clutching at straws and misguided enough to believe he was innocent. He kept his voice level.

"Your reputation precedes you, I'm afraid. Everyone in that courthouse will recognise your name and folks have got memories long enough to recall John Herod, the crimes committed by his gang and the money you all stole."

Thompson gazed at him quizzically. "What about the money you stole, Usher? At least we were honest about our robberies. We didn't try and hide behind the church!"

Usher shook his head impatiently. "You still believe all those lies Ben Carter told you? The word of a man who deserted you as soon as things got hot? Where's you're buddy when you need him, huh? Somewhere north of Sacramento by now, I shouldn't wonder."

Thompson shrugged. "Next time I see that son of a bitch I'll put a bullet in his head."

"You don't have that luxury anymore." Usher paused to choose his next words carefully.

"Hanging can be a most disagreeable experience. If the knot isn't placed correctly, if the drop is too short it might take an eternity for a man to die. On the other hand, it can be over in a heartbeat. Which would you prefer?"

Thompson was watching him with narrowed eyes. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"You've got something of mine. Something I'd like back without delay. You tell me where it is and I'll make sure you get a merciful death. You don't want pretty girls watching you piss and shit your pants, do you?"

Thompson didn't seem remotely bothered by the idea, he just kept staring. "I got nothing that belongs to you, Usher, so quit wasting your breath."

Usher sighed. He hadn't expected this to be easy.

"You stole 400,000 dollars from me and I'd like it back."

Thompson smirked insolently. "I didn't steal nothing and I ain't on trial for robbery. That money wasn't yours to start with and I see no reason to give it back."

Usher nodded. "I thought you might feel that way but it doesn't matter. You're going to die, Thompson, and it won't be easy. Afterwards I'll hunt down Benedict Carter and Jack Bellows and they'll be happy to give me the truth, with a little persuasion..."

"It won't work. I'm the only one who knows where the money's hid and I'll be taking that secret to the grave pretty soon." Thompson sniggered. "You ain't getting jack shit, Reverend."

Usher took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, reminding himself there was more to this meeting than money.

"I don't really care if it rots in the ground; I can earn it back easily enough. Your execution will make up for every missing dollar and it'll be the longest hanging in history. It might even make the books!"

He forced out a laugh, watching the chained man intently, looking for some kind of fear in his eyes, but there was none. Thompson was looking at him calmly.

"I've been hanged before, Usher. I know what it's like to feel the rope tighten, feel my throat close off and the whole weight of my body dragging down on my neck… I read books about it too, medical books which say a man blacks out after twenty seconds so I ain't scared and you ain't getting the show you need, however much you pay the damned hangman!"

That took Usher by surprise, but he told himself they were only the reckless lies of a desperate man.

"I'm glad you know so much about it, son, it'll be something to think on when you're lying in this cell the night before your execution."

Thompson was scowling from under his fringe now, looking to all intents and purposes like a mad, caged animal.

"If you've got nothing interesting to say I reckon you should go home, read your Bible and jerk off. You got plenty of material now!"

He laughed crudely. "And if you got money to spare, give Billy a little more. Tell him to bring some of those sweet things in the street by my cell for a few hours. A dead man's entitled to a little entertainment before he gets to hell."

Usher had seen the gaggle of women in the street outside the jail, giggling and chattering about the handsome young prisoner and it displeased him greatly. He'd been sorely tempted to stop and deliver a sermon on mortal sin and the perils of misplaced pity, but he couldn't afford to be recognised so he'd simply circled them and continued on his way.

Thompson was still watching him. "You still carry that hipflask with you? How about a little sip for the condemned, huh?"

He tried to move closer to the bars of the cell and once again the chain pulled him back. This time he dropped to his knees and pulled both manacled hands into a crude representation of prayer. When he spoke again it was in parody of a deep south accent, almost like the Negros used.

"Offer me a drink, good padre, in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit; especially the spirit which I pray might be bourbon and not that pig swill they serve in the bar rooms of purgatory. What do you say, Reverend Usher? You reckon that big barkeep in the sky might grant a dying man his last request for hard liquor?"

Usher was appalled. This prisoner, this debased animal kneeling before him in chains now saw fit to mock God and all his methods.

"You're despicable, Thompson, you deserve everything that's coming to you."

Thompson got slowly to his feet, wearing a nasty smile.

"Guess I'll see you in court then."

He actually puckered his lips and blew a kiss. Usher was reviled.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Thompson."

He turned on his heel and marched back down the passageway. The prisoner's raucous laughter followed him the whole way.

Cort sat on the edge of his bunk and forced out a slow breath, willing his heart to stop beating so hard. He'd gotten a little carried away towards the end of his performance but it had the desired effect. Henry Usher had left looking disgusted and rattled and that was just fine. Cort wanted the judge and everybody working for the prosecution to believe they were dealing with a deranged and deluded criminal, totally incapable of reforming his character. If the only threat he posed to them was physical, if they regarded his trial as a mere formality, some of them might get careless and lazy. It gave him the element of surprise and made their plan a lot easier to put into practice, when the moment came.

He heard footsteps approaching and Billy Reynolds came into view, smiling broadly as he unlocked the door and entered the cell.

"Nice work, Cort. The Reverend there's convinced you're gallows bait and deservedly so."

He removed the manacles and Cort rubbed at his wrists; already sore from the heavy restraints.

"Did he say anything else?"

Billy shrugged. "Only that he's giving some kind of sermon in the church tonight. I guess he finally wants Bisbee to know he's arrived."

"What kind of sermon?"

"He didn't say." Billy was watching him intently. "But I'll be sending one of the boys down to listen. Might even attend myself..."

Cort got the feeling it would somehow reflect Usher's recent experience and it made him nervous. Billy scratched at his beard.

"Don't be getting twitchy on us now, Cort. Nothing he says will have any effect on the men who matter. They all know the truth about him."

Cort nodded but couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Billy grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled him to his feet.

"Come and sit with us in the office. A glass of whisky should settle your nerves."

Cort smiled. "I thought you'd never ask, Billy!"


	26. Chapter 25

Cort looked into the mirror and smoothed down a lock of unruly hair. He looked agreeable. In fact he looked a damned sight better than that. He looked smart, dignified and respectable. Last night he'd taken a long bath, shaved closely and Toby had trimmed his hair so that it didn't hang into his face. Afterwards Billy Reynolds presented him with a handsome black suit and silver watch chain. He wouldn't say where the garments came from but the fabric was of a fine quality, the tailoring looked expensive and it was a perfect fit. There were boots to go with it, even a shirt and necktie, and Cort tugged at his collar, unused to wearing anything so close fitting. He took his newly polished Marshal's badge and pinned it to his vest, then put his jacket on and buttoned it. He could show the courthouse how he was a man of the law if required, but the small Bible in his inside breast pocket was a personal reminder that he was always a man of God.

Billy stuck his head around the door of the washroom and gave him an approving inspection.

"You look real dandy, Cort. Ready to go?"

Cort was more than ready. Now the trial was so close he was eager for it to start. Yesterday afternoon he'd been visited by the man who'd be acting as his defence attorney. He was around the same age as Cort and quite striking with his shock of chestnut-coloured hair. His name was Jonathan Briers and he'd travelled down from Phoenix at Toby's request. Not only was he a family friend of the Furnells, he also handled their legal affairs and Toby reckoned he was the best defence lawyer in seven states. Cort was just relieved to have proper representation. Briers seemed to know his business and had been busy around town; offering a long list of witnesses for approval before asking a barrage of pertinent questions and noting the answers carefully. He sat with Cort in his cell for several hours, covering every possible element of the trial, and he wouldn't even enter into the subject of payment – insisting it was taken care of. By the time he left he'd instilled a new sense of confidence in his client. Cort had twice tried to tell him about Henry Usher and the threat he posed to the legitimacy of the legal proceedings, but both times Briers held up a hand, said how Toby had put him in the picture, declared that Henry Usher wasn't on trial and that they should stay focussed on Cort's own case.

The day had turned out to be a lot busier than Cort expected, and he was honestly glad for the diversions. Shortly after Briers left, Billy Reynolds came back from church to report on Usher's sermon, which had not been well attended on account of the weather. He'd made a few direct references to the trial, some heavily veiled comments on the incurable nature of certain men, but spent most of the time reflecting on the influence of God, his ministry and himself, encouraging donations at every turn. Money was always the bottom line for Henry Usher, it seemed, though he'd let slip how he'd be in town for the duration of the trial in order to comfort the prisoner and commend his soul to God in the event he be found guilty and sentenced to death. Billy's eyes were glinting as he'd imparted that piece of information and he confessed to almost busting out laughing when he heard it.

Cort took one final look in the mirror then made his way into the main office which seemed a little cramped, large as it was, due to the number of men occupying it, all dressed in their finest outfits. There was Billy and his four deputies plus Toby, Ben and Jack; all of them wearing gun belts and holding shot glasses of whisky. Cort declined the liquor offered to him; he didn't want to smell of alcohol on the first day of his trial, but he noticed Ben and Bellows were wearing their Deputy's badges and smiled.

"Which Marshal are you working for today, fellers?"

Ben grinned back. "Both of 'em!"

Ben and Bellows had come to the jailhouse at around midnight and this time they hadn't left. They'd bathed and shaved, generally tidied themselves up then moved their stuff into two of the vacant cells, bellyaching the whole time about their fortnight of discomfort on a hard stone floor. Cort was initially pleased to be getting some company but soon thought better of it when the snoring started. They were planning on staying here until the trial was over. Usher might still try and ambush them but it seemed a little risky when they were now part of Billy Reynolds' expanding law force and had plenty of other deputies to look out for them. They weren't planning on taking any chances either and intended to sit tight in the jailhouse whenever they weren't in court. Cort could see things getting tense pretty quickly – too many strong minded characters in a confined space – and resolved to stay right out of any disagreements that blew up.

For the sake of appearances and protocol, Billy decided Cort should be chained for the short walk between the jailhouse and the courthouse. He held out his wrists obediently and a deputy locked the heavy manacles onto them. Billy opened the street door to a large crowd of people and they all started clapping when Cort stepped onto the porch. He smiled at them, moved beyond words by their simple show of support and when he tipped them a clumsy salute, they erupted into cheers, whistles and good natured catcalls. He recognised many of them from Redemption, including Doc Wallace and Horace from the saloon, and that affected him greatly. These were simple townsfolk who'd left their wives and families and ridden up to Bisbee, in God-awful conditions, just to back a man who tried to keep some kind of order in their town. He decided right there to throw a party for them all, if he ever made it back…

Snow began to fall as he walked up the street with his large, heavily armed escort. The support party followed and soon mingled with the larger crowd milling around the steps of the courthouse. Billy took Cort inside while the other deputies guarded the door and one of them began calling out a list of names.

Cort couldn't remember ever having been inside a courthouse – he'd spent most of his life actively avoiding them in fact – but this one seemed pretty grand. It was big, bright and smelled of wood, parchment and polish. It was currently empty and he gazed around at the rows of benches which would accommodate perhaps two hundred people. He reckoned there were a lot more than two hundred in the street right now. The judge's podium was raised, so was the witness box and gallery where the jury would sit. There were two mahogany tables placed out front, separated from the public area by wooden railings, and he guessed that's where the prosecution and defence would conduct their business. He wondered which table he'd be sitting at and was glad he'd have a seat at all. His attorney was of the opinion the trial might continue for days.

Billy took him into a private chamber where Jonathan Briers was waiting, greeting him with a smile, a warm handshake and a pot of fresh coffee. Billy released him from the restraints and left the room while Jonathan took him through some final details. Cort tried hard to pay attention but his mind was on the scene he'd just witnessed. He was imagining that room full of people, some of them hostile, and his stomach twisted. It would take time to get everybody inside; Billy and his team were searching anyone who wanted to come in, confiscating all weapons found and nobody was exempt, not even women. The only weapons in the courtroom would be those carried by Billy and his deputies. They all had rifles and shotguns, in addition to their pistols, and Cort took some comfort in that. At least those guns were working for him!

He was nervous and it seemed like an eternity before a bailiff knocked on the door and announced the trial was starting. He took a deep breath, straightened his tie and followed Jonathan into the court room. It was packed with people, crammed shoulder to shoulder and conversing in muted tones which immediately got louder when they saw him. The big room was warm and the windows running down each side of it were almost totally fogged up. Cort could just about see it was snowing hard outside now and he prayed it might continue. If the town got cut off then Henry Usher would be unable to creep away should he suddenly smell danger.

As Briers led him towards the further table he gazed into the public gallery, surprised at the number of females present and some actually had the audacity to flutter their eyelashes at him. He scanned the sea of faces carefully, looking for friends and allies and saw plenty of them. Charlie Barton and his councillors were right at the front, so was Randy Quirrell from the Blue Angel and even Father Reuben. Toby was seated beside a strikingly attractive woman with long auburn hair and an emerald green dress. That caused him a quick double take. The pair of them were deep in conversation but she glanced up as he passed, met his eyes for a moment and smiled.

There were faces from Redemption dotted throughout the crowd, Billy Reynolds and his deputies were spread around the edges of the room, rifles held casually, and he finally spotted Ben and Jack Bellows. They were standing below a window, halfway down the room, and their attention was fixed on somebody in the crowd. Cort followed their eyes and soon found Henry Usher, elegantly suited and sitting between the Marshal of Tucson and county sheriff. All three of them looked pissed off and Usher was glaring at Ben and Bellows, who were gazing insolently back. That gave him something to smile about as he took his seat next to Briers and studied the men of the jury. He didn't recognise a single one of them, didn't have a clue which were victims of Henry Usher's extortion but he had no time to ponder it. The judge arrived at that moment and the whole room stood up while he took his position.

Judge Maclean was an imposing, hard faced man with a dark suit and receding hairline. He'd replaced Bisbee's regular judge at the request of Mayor Anderson, who wanted somebody from out of town presiding over the trial. It was an unusual move but he'd managed to pull it off and Cort reckoned there was money involved since the other judge had promptly left for an exotic holiday. Maclean looked around the noisy courthouse with an expression of ill-concealed irritation. He banged his hammer loudly on his desk until silence fell.

"The court will be seated and the court will be silent. Rowdiness in the public galleries will not be tolerated and will result in immediate ejection of all parties concerned. Do I make myself clear?"

Obviously he did because the room remained quiet. He nodded curtly and then looked directly at Jonathan Briers.

"How does the defendant plead to the charge of murder?"

Briers stood up to address him. "Not guilty, your honour."

"Inevitably." Maclean actually sighed as he turned towards the prosecutor's bench. Cort looked over too. He took the man in the loud, ugly suit to be Mayor Anderson and was soon proved correct. When the judge invited the prosecution to proceed, it was the man beside him who stood up – a wiry, dapper individual with grey hair and a more sophisticated tailor. Cort was willing to bet he'd ridden up from Tucson righty alongside the judge.

Jonathan Briers had warned him how murder trials generally went and although he'd imagined himself prepared, Cort had an increasingly hard time listening to a succession of total strangers take the witness stand, tell lies about him and generally undermine his character. His old occupation as career outlaw was brought up continually, combined with as many bloody facts – gleaned entirely from chapbooks – as the witness could rattle off before Jonathan Briers shouted objection. Not all of them were sustained either. The events leading to Tyrone Williams' alleged murder were twisted and distorted to the point Cort began to wonder if he'd actually been involved in any of them.

The two men Toby shot inside the Blue Angel had managed to see and hear everything which happened in the street, despite being injured and unable to move from the bar room floor. Several players in the stud game swore how Cort had instigated the fight by attacking a pot boy, whom Tyrone Williams had magnanimously tried to help, and were clearly unaware the pot boy in question was sitting in the front row of the spectator's gallery. There were witnesses from the street who maintained the defendant shot Williams in cold blood, when he was already down, injured and begging for mercy and Mayor Anderson took the stand to give a glowing character reference about the municipal value of his fallen friend. The Marshal of Tucson and country sheriff wrapped things up with exaggerated accounts of Cort's forcible arrest in Redemption, which they'd been directly involved with despite being sat in a saloon at the other end of town.

Their account of the ride to Bisbee was one of personal bravery and great physical risk as they fought to keep a dangerous criminal under control, but they failed to mention how he'd been outnumbered, sick and unconscious for a large part of the journey. Neither of them mentioned their recent visit to his cell in Bisbee and Cort suspected it was because they had no valid reason to be there. He was glad of the omission: his violent play acting would have been difficult to explain but seemed to have served its purpose. The generally low quality of prosecution witness implied he wasn't regarded as being worthy of much effort.

He bristled as their lies continued but noticed some of the men in the jury paying close attention to him throughout. He sat up straight, folded his hands in his lap and tried to keep his expression neutral. It was one thing to hear statements from thugs, gamblers and an unpopular mayor, but these were lawmen and their words carried a little more weight.

There were continued jeers and catcalls from the public galleries as the prosecution made its case, and several people were removed on the judge's orders. Jonathan Briers asked questions of the more obtuse witnesses, seeking clarification on specific points, and Cort was getting increasingly frustrated. During the second recess he angrily demanded that the lies be challenged and Briers explained how he'd be recalling many of those witnesses once he'd made his own case, confident they would not react well to cross examination when the real story had been revealed. It made the subsequent testimony a little easier to listen to, but no easier to bear and Cort had to keep biting his tongue to keep from disputing the facts out loud.

Briers had already explained the standard prosecution tactic of discrediting the defendant early on, hoping to bias the jury, and he wasn't surprised by the lazy, erratic and conflicting testimony coming from most of the witnesses. He said it was common for an arrogant prosecutor to undervalue the intelligence of a jury, and that it nearly always worked in the defence's favour. Cort wondered if he knew the verdict was supposed to be a foregone conclusion, then figured this wasn't the best time to be discussing it.

It took all day for the prosecution to present its witnesses and Cort returned to the jailhouse feeling tired, edgy and irritable, his head spinning from the amount of crap he'd been forced to listen to. He couldn't help speculating how many people in the courthouse, including the jury, might have believed the lies and exaggerations, and the thought made him anxious as hell. There had not been one single mention of his time as a priest and only passing references to his capacity as town marshal, which all implied he was ineffective and doing it exclusively for money. Today's witnesses had focussed on the deeds of his distant past and part of him felt that whatever Jonathan Briers said tomorrow, the image of him as a dangerous, incorrigible criminal was already firmly planted in too many people's minds.

Being surrounded by a large group of excited and noisy deputies didn't help his mood any. They were trying to be supportive but their loud voices and rousing claptrap soon began to grate. He only managed to force down half of his supper, since his stomach was tied up in knots, and he responded rudely when Billy and Ben encouraged him to eat and keep his strength up. Afterwards he retired to his cell with a quart of whisky, hoping it would settle his nerves and help him sleep, praying nobody decided to follow. Thankfully nobody did. It was only a little after eight o'clock but he felt bone weary. He hung his suit up carefully, flopped onto his bunk and took a long draught of liquor.

Tomorrow it was the turn of the defence, and Cort would be the first person Briers called to the witness stand. He was very nervous about getting questioned by the prosecutor but Briers had told him to stick to the facts and try not to deviate, speculate, become emotional or get riled by the other attorney. Cort thought carefully about the events of that distant visit to Bisbee as he made his way through the whisky. By the time the bottle was empty he felt ready to face the next day of the trial. He leaned across and blew out the candle.

It seemed like only minutes later that Ben shook him awake, gave him a cup of coffee and told him he needed to get ready for another day in court. The cell was chilly and he didn't fancy leaving his warm bunk while it was still dark outside, while the wind was moaning and snow was whipping at the small window. He sat up eventually and drank the hot brew, still drowsy as he washed, shaved and dressed. He sat by the wood burner in the office afterwards, drinking more coffee while the other occupants of the jailhouse made use of the facilities.

One of Billy's deputies was preparing breakfast as Toby hadn't shown his face since yesterday morning. That was a little odd but Cort reckoned it had something to do with the woman he'd seen in court. He was restless and went over to the window to gaze into the street. It was just about getting light but it was hard to tell. The sky was low, the colour of pewter and it was snowing heavily, wind whipping it into thick drifts which almost obliterated some of the lower buildings. There wasn't a soul in the street, though it was gone eight, but who'd want to be outside in weather like that? Everybody was talking about the harsh and unseasonal conditions but Cort found it oddly comforting. It suited his mood and he hoped it might even deter some of the spectating public from the courthouse today.

Breakfast was an unappetising affair. He'd gotten used to Toby's cooking and what eventually arrived on his plate was stodgy, bland and slightly undercooked. It was hot though, he was hungry and he shovelled it down. A smaller group was waiting to greet him outside today and they all hustled their arses up to the courthouse in record time. Another crowd was gathered there and once again Billy took him in while the lengthy process of searching the public got underway.

The second day of the trail began promptly at ten and he walked out to another full and decidedly boisterous house. All the oil lamps were lit and once more he scanned the faces of the crowd. The pretty woman was seated beside Toby again and today she was wearing a frock of the deepest blue. When she smiled at him this time he smiled back, feeling his spirits lift a little.

The unruly crowd received more harsh words of reprimand from Judge Maclean and then Jonathan Briers called Cort to the stand. His heart was hammering and his mouth went dry but he swore on the Bible to tell the truth and sincerely meant every word of it. Briers asked for his name, age and occupation and there was a smattering of applause when he stated he was the town marshal of Redemption. The judge looked at him sharply, asked how long he'd held the position and demanded to see his badge. Cort told him he'd held the office for a little over two months and opened his coat to reveal the star. After that he gave his honest account of the events which led to the shooting of Tyrone Williams. He kept it simple and concise and the judge interrupted a few more times, but only to tell him to speak up.

Afterwards the prosecutor began his cross examination. His name was Matthew Stearson and he was aggressive, patronising and rude, treating Cort as though he was stupid and using fancy words to try and confuse him. Cort tried to keep in mind what Jonathan had told him. He stayed calm, considered carefully before answering and backed up a couple of his statements with precise quotes from the Bible. Stearson immediately picked him up on that, sarcastically wondering how he'd come by such knowledge, and there was a ripple of surprise from the crowd when he stated he'd been a priest for three years. That earned him another sharp look from the judge and a few curt questions about the nature of his church and congregation.

His exact business in Bisbee on the day of the killing was called into question and he explained how he and his deputy had accompanied Jack Bellows, a resident of Redemption who wished to make a large withdrawal from his bank in Bisbee. He described his capacity as both guard and deterrent and glanced at Henry Usher, hoping for some kind of reaction. Usher's expression was inscrutable though, and Stearson didn't press the matter any further.

The prosecutor took his time, seeking to trip him up on his story, but since Cort wasn't lying his efforts were in vain. The only upheaval was when Stearson asked why he'd resisted arrest in Redemption. Cort replied that he'd heard how the marshal of Tucson and County Sheriff were corrupt and didn't much fancy his chances with them. The whole room erupted in jeers and laughter and Judge Maclean ordered his words struck from the court record.

Later on Briers began calling other witnesses. Ben was engaging and eager while Jack Bellows brought new meaning to the phrase contempt of court. He played cat and mouse with Stearson, met his questions with roughly equal levels of sarcasm and disrespect, and earned several warnings from the judge. When Toby took the stand and gave his name there was an audible intake of breath around the room and the men of the jury all stared at him. The testimony of all three was consistent and contradicted everything offered by the prosecution, but none were given the opportunity to elaborate or provide details of personal motivation. Jonathan Briers asked questions pertaining to precise events, and Matthew Stearson cross-examined on the same principal. There was no opportunity to even hint at Henry Usher's involvement and Cort could understand why the prosecution might take that approach, but his own attorney seemed intent on playing the whole trial according to a strict legal rulebook.

Over lunch he confronted Jonathan Briers and tried to explain the situation clearly; how Henry Usher was pulling the court's strings with the judge, prosecutor and most of the jury in his back pocket. He described how eight of the twelve men had been threatened and cajoled into finding him guilty, whatever they personally believed, and argued that Henry Usher needed to be exposed alongside the corrupt nature of the courtroom. Briers just nodded mildly as he said his piece and it angered him into some harsh words.

"That judge is here for one reason only and that's to deliver the death sentence. You might be a big shot lawyer but you can't keep my neck out of a noose!"

Briers looked at him keenly. "I was under the impression those threatened men are on your side."

That stopped him in his tracks. "Toby told you that?"

"Toby told me everything!"

That only served to fan Cort's anger. "You know the whole trial's corrupt as hell, the verdict will have nothing to do with the workings of the law, but you play it by the letter anyway?"

Briers smiled sourly. "Listen to me, son. Everything that gets said out there is written down and recorded. It will form a public, historic and legal document. Some of it might even get published in the newspapers. In the unlikely event you get sentenced to death the case will go to appeal and that record will be closely scrutinised. I doubt even Henry Usher has jurisdiction in the appeal court so those of us who are here for legitimate reasons need to maintain proper and exacting levels of credibility. Our words, characters and professional reputations will be on that record forever."

Cort bristled. It sounded like Briers was only concerned about his own reputation right now.

"So the man behind this mockery of a trial, who's caused hurt and torment to so many people, gets to walk because you don't want a black mark against your name?"

Briers eyed him sternly. "Do you want to find yourself another lawyer, Mister Thompson?"

"No damn it! I want you to understand what's happening. I'm only risking my neck to bring Henry Usher to justice. If that won't happen then don't expect me here tomorrow 'cause I'll be on my way to California!"

Briers snorted. "You'll be snowed up in Bisbee like the rest of us." He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a couple of sips before sitting down.

"The time to confront Henry Usher is when this case is over. No judge, good or bad, will allow a criminal trial to be diverted by irrelevancy, however worthwhile the cause. Whoever told you this was a good place to expose him was gravely mistaken."

Cort stood up and began pacing the room, frustrated by the revelation. His thoughts were whirling and he tried to get them in order. Briers carried on talking.

"Before you throw accusations at a man many people believe to be a living saint, you've got to show what kind of man you are, and give them a good reason to believe your word over his. When you've convinced the jury that you're a decent, honest, God fearing lawman and not some cold blooded killer, that's the time to say your piece."

Cort shook his head. "When this trial's over Henry Usher will vanish. Our only hope was to expose him to enough people that word would spread and his ministry might fall. If we let him walk away then all of this is for nothing."

Briers was smiling. "I know how you're working things, Cort. You've got seven lawmen with guns out there, eight if you include Toby, and an unarmed crowd. Once the verdict is in – and I reckon we know how it'll go – that's the time to act. You'll be an innocent man with enough firepower to keep everyone in that room while you tell them straight."

That made a certain sense. The men directing the course of the trial would not be easily distracted from the law, however rotten their motives, and it had to run its course. The mention of Toby reminded Cort of something he'd been meaning to ask.

"Who's that woman sitting by Toby? Some lady friend he's been keeping private?"

Briers' eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Viv?"

Cort shrugged. "I don't know."

"That's Vivienne Furnell. She's Greg's widow and my younger sister!"

Cort stared at him, noticing the family resemblance for the first time, and suddenly a lot of things made sense. "She's Toby's sister in law?"

"Correct". Briars smiled grimly. "She's a fine woman and for her sake and that of her family, I'm eager to see Henry Usher exposed too."

Cort cocked an eyebrow. "Does she know he's responsible for her husband's death?"

Briers nodded. "She knows everything and she fancies you as some kind of hero, though the way Toby talks I can't say she has much choice." He laughed. "It's a pity there's no legitimate way to put her on the stand, she'd make a good witness for the defence."

Cort shared his sentiments. Gregory Furnell's widow could have a lot of influence over the people of Bisbee. Something occurred to him.

"She can't be a witness but she could say something when the trial's over. You reckon she might do that?"

Briers shrugged. "Why don't you ask her?"

"I'm not at liberty to do that right now."

Briers shot him an amused look. "She wants to meet you, Cort. She asks ten times a day if I'll bring her to the jailhouse, so why don't I do it tonight?"

Cort considered it. Vivienne Furnell had no connection to the trial, so no transgression would be committed, and she might just turn out to be their best weapon in the battle against Henry Usher. Spending a little time in the company of a beautiful woman wasn't unappealing either. He nodded at Briers.

"I'd appreciate that."


	27. Chapter 26

Ben Carter's back was stiff, his legs were aching and his stomach was growling. A day and a half spent on his feet in the courtroom, on top of several weeks sleeping on a rock floor, were beginning to take their toll. He wondered if he should ask a bailiff to fetch him a stool for the afternoon session then realised he'd only get a bellyful of sarcasm from Jack Bellows if he did…

Getting the large number of public spectators in and out of court was time consuming and tedious; anybody who left the room during the various recesses had to be searched on re-entry and lunchtime was always the biggest job. Most people elected to keep their seats during the longer break and bought food with them, not wishing to lose their position or venture outdoors in the snow, but enough moved around to keep Ben and the rest of Billy's force fully occupied with barely enough time to find anything to eat for themselves. A deputy shouldered his way through the sizeable group of people sheltering from the snow on the porch of the courthouse, and thrust a paper-wrapped package into his hands. It turned out to be a couple of lukewarm pies and he ate quickly as he helped check people coming back in. The afternoon session was commencing in exactly ten minutes and they hustled.

Ben didn't know what to make of the trial. Yesterday had been deeply frustrating for anybody who knew Cort or was part of the contested events in Bisbee. The succession of lies had affected his friend profoundly but Cort seemed in better spirits today and the morning's testimony had been a damned sight more convincing than anything the prosecution's motley assortment of witnesses could produce.

He took his usual place by the window halfway down the courtroom, and Jack Bellows joined him presently. They had a good view of the entire room from here and could keep Henry Usher in their sights. He always took the same seat, flanked by his two tame lawmen, and Ben had been watching him closely. The only flicker of emotion he'd shown throughout was when he spotted Ben and Bellows for the first time, though he'd swiftly covered his surprise and suspicion with a baleful glare. Ben was quite surprised to find Usher in court on the second day. Surely he'd realised things were not as they seemed? Then again, he was arrogant enough to believe he still possessed the upper hand.

The afternoon session comprised more sound testimony. Randy Quirrell from the Blue Angel hotel corroborated everything stated by the morning's witnesses then Billy Reynolds and his most senior deputy made a mockery of the Marshal of Tucson and county sheriff by describing how they'd had nothing to do with Cort's arrest and how he'd been a model prisoner throughout his lengthy incarceration. Jonathan Briers surprised the hell out of everyone by calling Father Reuben as a character witness. He told of the extreme remorse felt by the defendant, who'd found it necessary to come to his church immediately after the shooting, but said nothing about other events which had taken place there. Ben watched Henry Usher closely during the priest's examination but he maintained a poker face and kept his eyes firmly on the witness stand throughout. After that came more character witnesses – Charlie Barton, town mayor of Redemption, old Doc Wallace and even Horace from the saloon. Jonathan Briers seemed to be concentrating on quality over quantity and all of them testified as to how Cort was instrumental in turning John Herod's pit of depravity into a respectable, decent town to live in, at considerable risk to himself and little in the way of remuneration. Ben heard some of the women in the room gasp as the doctor described the injuries he'd sustained and although he could only see the back of his head, he was willing to bet Cort's face was red.

The final session wrapped at six o'clock but it was nearly seven before he got back to the jailhouse. He desperately needed a drink and considered detouring to a nearby saloon but Jack Bellows wouldn't hear of it, pointing out they were still targets and shouldn't get lulled into a false sense of security. There was booze in abundance at Billy's place but in truth Ben was weary of being cooped up inside, looking at the same faces every night, and he craved different company. There was nothing to be done though and he reminded himself Cort had been in the same situation for over two weeks now. He wasn't complaining about it either.

Cort was in the parlour when he got back to the jailhouse, drinking a beer and talking with Billy Reynolds. The room was rarely used but tonight there was a hearty fire burning in the grate and the oil lamps and candles were lit, giving it a cheery and inviting glow. Ben hung up his coat and hat in the office, returned to the parlour then stood and listened to the conversation for a while. Cort was animated and exuberant, his eyes flashing and Ben wondered which part of today's events had gotten him so excited. During a lull he took the opportunity to ask.

"You reckon things went well today, Marshal?"

Cort smiled. "I'm proud of every man who stood as my witness."

Ben wasn't convinced . "You look like the cat who got the cream! What's going on?"

Billy Reynolds was grinning.

"Cort's getting a visit from a lady tonight and from what I hear, she worships him already!" He laughed. "I offered him my chamber but he prefers to entertain her in here!"

Cort reddened. "It's not like that; I've never met her before."

Ben glanced at him. "Who is she?"

Cort suddenly seemed a little wary. "Jonathan's sister."

"That don't exactly narrow the field. What's her name?"

Cort eyed him for a long moment before spitting it out. "Vivienne Furnell."

The words hit Ben like a steam engine. "She's coming here? What time?"

Cort looked at the clock on the mantel piece. "About now, I reckon."

Ben had seen Vivienne Furnell inside the courthouse and knew she'd seen him, but he had absolutely no intention of talking to her. Just looking at her brought back too many guilty memories and he couldn't handle a personal confrontation. He strode across the parlour, intent on leaving the jailhouse, and Billy barred his way.

"You ain't leaving. Bisbee's a dangerous place while Henry Usher's in town."

"Dammit, Billy, I can take care of myself."

Billy shook his head and didn't budge. Cort's voice came from behind him.

"She's coming to visit me, Ben, not you. Go and lie in your bunk if you don't want to see her."

He stared at Cort, who looked back calmly. Finally he nodded and Billy moved aside. Ben returned to the office, meaning to get himself a couple of beers and something to read. The cooler was right by the street door and as he leaned down to grab some bottles there was a rap on the door. He froze, ignoring the calls of the other deputies to get the damned thing and eventually Jack Bellows stomped over, asked who was knocking and opened the door to Jonathan Briers and Toby.

Vivienne was between them; tall and elegant in a long coat trimmed with fur and a matching hat. Ben took a few steps backwards as they entered the room, feeling his face burning with shame and guilt. He couldn't look at her face so he lowered his head and stared at her boots instead. The boots turned in his direction and came closer. He backed up again, feeling his back hit the wall of the office and the boots stopped right before him. Soft words reached his ears, designed for him alone.

"Please look at me."

He kept his head down and blushed even deeper. He felt her gloved finger under his chin, pushing upwards until eventually he was forced to look at her squarely. He'd forgotten what a fine looking woman she was, and suddenly realised why Cort was so excited to meet her.

"Don't be embarrassed, Mister Carter. Toby told me everything; what you did for myself and my children and what it cost you. We're forever in your debt."

Ben shook his head. "If it wasn't for me you'd still have a husband."

"Don't blame yourself. I know who's responsible for Greg's death and I know Mister Thompson will bring him to justice. I'm glad you're on his side."

She kissed him on the cheek and his legs almost gave way. He managed to stammer out a few words. "Uh… Cort's in the parlour."

She nodded. "Why don't you join us? I hear you and he are quite a team."

Ben considered it for a moment. It was tempting but somehow he didn't think Cort would appreciate his presence. Instead he showed Vivienne to the parlour and stepped aside to let her pass. Cort stood and offered his hand as she entered, wearing a shy smile and cutting a dash in his fancy black suit. Ben had no doubt they'd charm the hell out of each other and he closed the door and went back to the office where Jonathan Briers was dissecting the day's events in court, surrounded by attentive deputies. He felt the day had gone very well, planned to recall some of the prosecution witnesses tomorrow but refused to be drawn on questions which might compromise his professional integrity.

Eventually the party broke up into smaller groups and Ben spent some time talking with Toby, who affirmed everything Vivienne had told him. She really didn't blame him for the sorry events of the past, truly appreciated the money he'd left her and his part of the effort to bring Henry Usher to justice. Ben was damned relieved to hear it. She was with Cort in the parlour for just over an hour and when they finally emerged, both seemed in good spirits. She kissed his cheek as she left the jailhouse with Jonathan and Cort blushed.

He played it coy in the extreme and wouldn't say a word about what had transpired between them, despite some intensive curiosity and speculation, concentrating instead on eating a late supper then drinking a few beers in the parlour with Billy. Ben didn't join them; he was still reeling from his close encounter with a woman who had every right to hate his guts but actually possessed the decency to forgive him. He retired early, seeking the solitude of sleep.

Day three of the trial began promptly at ten. The sky was overcast but it wasn't snowing and once again there was a full house. Jonathan Briers began calling key prosecution witnesses, those who'd been most resolute in their stories, then proceeded to tear their testimony apart inch by inch. Matthew Stearson's efforts to stop him were in vain and Ben marvelled at the skill of the man. He kept his eyes on Henry Usher as the prosecution's case unravelled and felt a grim satisfaction as his poise began to falter. He kept leaning across to whisper to the county sheriff and as the lunchtime recess began, Ben watched the sheriff hurry down to Stearson's bench and talk to him urgently. They vanished into one of the private chambers together and he fought down a feeling of unease as he left the courtroom to attend the usual security matters.

After lunch Briers wrapped up his cross examination and Matthew Stearson was invited to proceed. He responded by calling a new character witness. The man's name was Henry Usher.

Cort whipped round in his seat, ashen faced and there was an outbreak of surprised conversation in the courtroom. Ben stiffened as Usher stood, smiling benignly as he smoothed down his suit and made his way to the front of the room. Judge MacLean hammered on his desk for silence and Ben heard Jack Bellows curse quietly.

"What the hell's going on? He's got no business on that witness stand!"

Ben couldn't figure it out either. Since the verdict of the trial was supposedly fixed there was no good reason for Usher to get involved. He glanced at Bellows.

"Maybe he don't like seeing Cort presented in such a good light?"

Usher was sworn in and Stearson proceeded to ask a few questions regarding his status and occupation before moving on to the nature of his relationship with the defendant. Usher spoke easily, in assured tones and he sounded plausible as hell. He launched into a monologue which sounded rehearsed and struck Ben as something he might preach in church on a Sunday morning.

"I've met Cortez Thompson on three occasions and each time was in deeply unfortunate circumstances. When a man leads an accursed life it has a habit of catching up with him, however hard he runs. The first time was a chance meeting in the desert between Hermosillo and Redemption. Thompson was a prisoner; starved, chained and bleeding from continually resisting arrest…"

Stearson interrupted with a question. "How did he come to be in ermossHermosillo?"

Usher smiled. "He was running a mission down there, masquerading as a priest. All he was really doing, or course, was hiding from the law and his old gang while taking advantage of the young females in his congregation. I hear the birth rate in that town's gone up quite considerably…"

Jonathan Briers shouted objection on account of speculation and the Judge ordered Usher to stay within the facts. Ben glanced over at Cort; he was sitting bolt upright in his chair and his shoulders were trembling. Briers was murmuring something in his ear but it didn't seem to be having much effect. Usher continued.

"Mister Thompson was being hauled to Redemption on the orders of John Herod, who'd located him and wanted to settle an old score. I admit to being taken in by his holy act and helping as best I could by offering him water and begging his captors to treat him kindly. I honestly expected Herod to kill him but he somehow survived and the second time I encountered him he was posing as the Town Marshal of Redemption. I witnessed him gun down two men in the street outside the saloon. His friend and deputy marshal Ben Carter killed a third. The poor beggars didn't stand a chance."

Ben smarted at the sound of his name and the blatant mistruth attached to it, but Cort shot to his feet. "That's a damned lie, Usher. Those men were working for you!"

Jonathan Briers pulled him back into his chair and the Judge looked over severely.

"You will contain your client, Mister Briers, or I'll order him restrained!"

Usher was wearing a smug smile and Ben's heart sank. By reacting so vehemently to the lies Cort was merely reinforcing them. Briers was talking to him urgently and Ben prayed he was getting through. Usher continued glibly.

"Thompson was hurt in the fight, hospitalised for two days and during that period I went to visit him. I felt a heavy burden of guilt and the need to try and help him. I offered him a job in my ministry: honest, God-fearing work which would help redeem his soul by undertaking some good deeds on this earth to account for all the bad. He turned me down flat."

Cort was on his feet again and lurching towards the witness box. Briers grabbed his shoulders to hold him back and he struggled furiously.

"You offered me a job protecting your blood money, you son of a bitch. There's nothing Godly in that!"

Judge MacLean banged his hammer on the desk and pointed at some nearby bailiffs.

"You will restrain him right now. I will not have behaviour like this in my court!"

One of the men produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket and both approached cautiously. Cort stood glowering at Usher as they were locked onto his wrists and Ben took the opportunity to get close while the room was in uproar and the Judge was distracted by a conversation with the court reporter.

"Damn it, Cort, don't let him rile you like this. All you're doing is backing up his lies."

He pushed Cort down into his chair. "Don't give him the satisfaction of reacting. You're screwing up all the work we've put into this case."

Cort wasn't listening and his eyes were unfocussed. There was something raging deep within and Ben struggled to find words that might reach him.

"Usher's on that stand because he's scared. He knows people believe you and since most of that jury know the truth about him, nothing he says is gonna make a difference to the verdict."

Cort shook his head savagely. "Too many people believe he's a fucking saint. He'll turn them around."

He swivelled in his seat and glared at Briers. "Recall Father Reuben. Ask him what really happened in that church. Ask him why there were two men in there unconscious and bound. Ask him…."

Briers eyed him sternly.

"Listen to me, son; you're not a defence attorney so don't be telling me how to conduct my business. Once Henry Usher is done, and I've had an opportunity to cross-examine, we'll evaluate our situation. Right now I'm asking you to trust me and stay calm because if you speak out of turn again the Judge will have you removed from this room. Do you want that?"

Cort stared at him. "He's lying, Jonathan."

"Credit me with some intelligence, huh?" Briers sounded a little condescending.

Cort was resolute. "Yesterday you told me you weren't going to bring Henry Usher's name into this trial. You still think that's a smart move?"

Briers smiled tightly. "Henry Usher just elected to get involved in something which shouldn't be any of his business. That makes him an open target by my reckoning."

Ben stayed close to the prosecution's bench as the court calmed down and Usher was permitted to proceed. He picked up as though nothing had happened to interrupt his discourse.

"The third time I met Cortez Thompson was in the jailhouse right here in Bisbee. I'd gotten word about his unpleasant behaviour, his lack of humility and repentance and I felt it my spiritual duty to speak with him and try to reach his soul. He was locked in a cell and chained to the wall, a danger to every person in this town and although I worried a little about my own wellbeing, God's work took priority. I tried in vain to reach him but he laughed at me, acted like a dog and wished me physical harm. I left that place with a heavy heart. Some men are beyond redemption and I fear Thompson is one of them."

Stearson spoke up. "You submit all of this as a man of the Lord?"

Usher nodded. "I sincerely do."

"Then I have no more questions."

Ben glanced at Cort. He was staring straight at the witness box but twisting and worrying at the cuffs on his wrists; a picture of strain and anxiety. The judge asked Jonathan Briers if he had any questions and he replied in the affirmative then stood up.

"Mister Usher, as a man of God I'm sure you're aware of the eighth commandment?"

Usher folded his hands and smiled. "Though shalt not steal."

"And would you agree that acquiring large sums of money by means of blackmail and extortion might qualify as theft?"

The smile didn't falter. "It would depend on the circumstances."

Briers stuck his hands in his pockets and seemed to be considering something. "Try this set of circumstances, Mister Usher. A God fearing man goes to church and listens to the preacher's sermon. Afterwards he pays a visit to the Confessional, wishing only to cleanse his soul and make amends. The preacher listens to his sins; some trivial, others not so, then absolves them and he goes on his way. A little while later one particular sin returns to haunt him. It takes the form of an armed gang who demand money from him in return for their silence. Would the man be wrong to assume the sanctity of his confession to the priest might somehow have been breached?"

Usher shrugged. "He might assume that. On the other hand he might have loose lips and let the secret slip in some saloon after a glass of whisky."

Briers nodded. "Or maybe that gang beat his secret out of the priest."

Stearson shouted objection and the judge spoke up. "Where are you going with this, Mister Briers?"

"If you'll indulge me, your honour, I'll show you this man is not a reliable character witness."

The objection was overruled and Ben began to watch Judge MacLean a little more closely. For all his gruffness and ill temper, he was running the trial remarkably fairly. His actions weren't exactly those of a compromised man and if he were really on Usher's payroll, would he have allowed Jonathan Briers to get this far in his accusations? There was another possibility of course, and Ben's heart jumped a little as it crossed his mind, but he didn't want to get his hopes up. Briers was talking again.

"We've established how my client visited the church in Bisbee after shooting Tyrone Williams; how he lit a candle and prayed for the soul of the man he killed. Events which occurred afterwards were not previously revealed on account of irrelevancy, but Mister Usher's involvement has now called them into question."

The judge intervened. "Please get to the point, Mister Briers."

"I can prove my client stopped two men beating Father Reuben inside the Sacristy. He left them tied up in the church aisle for the town marshal to find. They were beating the priest because he refused to break the sanctity of his Confessional, refused to give them the names of wealthy men who might then be blackmailed."

Henry Usher still seemed totally calm, though his face was beginning to resemble a mask, but Matthew Stearson's face was red.

"How is this relevant to the validity of the witness, your honour?"

The judge looked at Briers enquiringly. "I'm wondering the same thing, Mister Briers."

Briers smiled slightly. "That church is part of Henry Usher's ministry, your honour. I therefore submit that he not only knew what was going on, but engineered the scheme in order to make money illegitimately. When my client discovered the truth and tried to stop the villainy which has been running unchecked while using the church as a front, Henry Usher made it his business to prevent him by bringing a bogus charge of murder by way of his close friend, Mayor Anderson!"

Stearson practically screamed objection and the judge banged his hammer again. "Mister Briers you are out of order. I will see you in my chambers immediately and the witness may stand down."

The room erupted into boisterous conversation as the two men departed and Ben watched Henry Usher get down from the witness stand and return to his seat. He looked thoughtful but unflustered and immediately struck up a conversation with the county sheriff. The defendant on the other hand…

Ben strode down the courtroom and slid into Jonathan Briers' vacant seat. Cort was staring at his hands and twisting and yanking at the cuffs again. He seemed thoroughly preoccupied but surprised Ben by glancing over and speaking quietly.

"What do you reckon the judge is saying?"

Ben shrugged and didn't reply.

"Jonathan went out on a limb there. He might get thrown out of court…"

Ben noticed Cort's hands shaking and understood how the idea of losing his attorney might be catastrophic.

"I think there's more to that judge than meets the eye."

Cort sniffed. "He's working for Usher."

"He's running this trial fairly and no dog of Usher's would let Briers say what he just did."

Cort cocked an eyebrow, seemed momentarily hopeful, then looked at the cuffs on his wrists. "He thinks I'm dangerous. That's enough to hang me."

"You spoke out of turn, buddy; twice! That's the only reason you're wearing those things." He gazed at Cort intently. "I reckon the next witness Briers calls will show us where the judge stands in this."

But it was another ten minutes before Jonathan Briers emerged from the judge's chambers and Ben spent the whole time trying to reassure his increasingly nervous friend. As Briers approached he gave Cort's shoulder a rough, encouraging shake before vacating the attorney's chair.

Briers sat down, leaned close to murmur something into Cort's ear and the effect was encouraging. Cort straightened up, his shoulders went back and he actually smiled. He looked up expectantly as Judge MacLean resumed his podium and addressed the room.

"Mister Briers, you may call your next witness."

Briers stood up. "I'd like to recall Father Reuben."


	28. Chapter 27

Cort watched as Father Reuben got to his feet and made his way slowly towards the witness box. He looked as anxious as Cort felt. As he turned back to face the judge he caught sight of Vivienne Furnell. She smiled at him, nodded encouragingly and mouthed a couple of words which he interpreted as 'stay strong'. He tried to smile back but suspected it looked more like a grimace.

The worry of the day's proceedings had all but forced last night's memories from his mind, but he'd enjoyed a very pleasant hour in her company. Shy, quiet and nervous at first – it was the first time in his life he'd entertained a woman of education and breeding – she'd soon put him at ease with her light touch and easy manner. They'd spent the time laughing and exchanging little stories of their lives, instinctively steering clear of the darker elements which had served to bring them together. She'd talked about her children and hopes for them, her home in Phoenix and the wish to see her husband's killer brought to justice. Cort had spoken of his efforts as a priest and lawman and she'd remarked how many parts of his character reminded her of Gregory. When he'd eventually worked up the courage to ask if she'd be willing to speak up in the fight against Henry Usher she'd smiled and told him that nothing on earth could stop her doing that. They'd parted on the understanding she'd come and visit him as often as possible. He hoped she might be able to come tonight. God knew his spirits needed lifting…

The priest reached the witness box and glanced around warily. Jonathan Briers stood up with a reassuring smile.

"Father Reuben, how long have you been working here in Bisbee?"

"Two years and seven months. I built that chapel with my own sweat and blood."

Briers nodded. "And how long has your church been part of Henry Usher's ministry?"

Reuben considered. "Fifteen months now."

"Why did you elect to join him?"

Reuben stared in Usher's direction and frowned. "I elected nothing. I had no wish to join his ministry but was given no choice. I was presented with an ultimatum, by Usher himself, that I do as instructed or be removed from my church and congregation. He said he had the money and power to do it and I believed him."

Matthew Stearson objected and the judge overruled. Briers continued.

"On the morning Tyrone Williams died my client, Cortez Thompson, came to your church in order to pray. Please tell the court how you came to meet."

The priest's eyes flickered over to Cort for a moment. "Two men were beating me in the Sacristy. He came busting into the room with his gun drawn, knocked them unconscious and tied them up. His only concern was to help a priest he'd never met and he acted like a true saviour."

There were murmurings and mutterings from the public galleries and Briers raised his voice a little.

"Why were they beating you, Father Reuben?"

The priest hesitated for a moment, screwing up his courage. Finally he spat it out.

"As a condition of joining Henry Usher's ministry, I was expected to pass on the confessions of my congregation and for a spell I was naïve enough to do just that. When an unfortunate and untimely death showed me the error of my way I realised, too late, that he was using my information to blackmail the richest men in town. On that day I refused to tell him anything more so he began sending men to beat the truth from me. For some time now they have been unsuccessful."

Stearson shouted objection several times and the judge kept over-ruling him. The unrest in the courtroom was picking up and Cort turned to watch Henry Usher. He looked deeply uncomfortable; his face was red and there were beads of sweat on his brow. Ben Carter and Jack Bellows were standing nearby, cradling shotguns and watching him closely.

Judge MacLean banged his hammer and called for silence. In the sudden hush, Briers presented his most pressing enquiry.

"Please elaborate on the particular death you mentioned, Father Reuben."

The priest took a deep breath. "When Gregory Furnell died most folks figured it was suicide. In truth he was blackmailed and robbed to the point of desperation. With all his money gone, a young family to support and his career plan hijacked, he was at his wit's end. The despair and anxiety made him irrational and he felt the only way out of the sorry situation was to take his own life. I will forever live with the guilt of knowing I broke the sanctity of his confession, but Henry Usher must take his burden of the blame!"

The courthouse erupted into chaos. People stood up and started yelling and those closest to Usher looked threatening as hell. Cort glanced over at Vivienne Furnell but she was caught up in conversation with Toby. Neither seemed upset by the statement. The blast of a pistol brought a respite and Billy Reynolds shouted into the silence.

"All of you sit down now and shut your yap. Anyone who feels emotional can take their leave but I'll expect those who stay to behave in a mannerly fashion. If you can't do that you'll be forcibly ejected!"

Things remained quiet enough for Jonathan Briers to conclude his examination.

"You state all this as a man of the Lord, Father?"

The priest nodded. "I sincerely do."

"Then I have nothing further."

Matthew Stearson took his turn and asked a few ineffectual questions which the priest easily fielded. He seemed to sense the tide of the judge's opinion had turned and had accordingly lost much of his bluster.

Things moved pretty quickly after that. Billy Reynolds was briefly recalled to confirm the presence of the two thugs in the church, and he embellished things a little by stating how they'd become known to him as gamblers, thieves and ne'er do wells. There were no further witnesses to call so Briers and Stearson were invited to present their closing summary. Cort was no legal expert but it seemed to him Briers had gotten the upper hand by some considerable measure and he hoped the men of the jury, even those who were party to their scheme, were suitably impressed. The Judge made his summing up, which included words on the dangers of false prophets, and then the jury was instructed to retire and deliberate their findings. The court was adjourned until morning but the judge added a final caveat: that Henry Usher be removed to the Marshal's Office for his protection until the verdict was delivered.

Cort almost laughed out loud when he heard that and Briers gave a restrained cough of mirth. Together they watched the room clear out until only Usher and his two tame lawmen remained. They all put up quite an argument but Billy had the firepower and strength of numbers to quell their objections and threats. Eventually Usher was escorted from the room and Briers took Cort to his private chamber. Once there he produced a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard in his desk. He poured two glasses.

"I don't want to celebrate prematurely, but I reckon we could both use a drink?"

Cort sat down and drained the liquor in one draught, using both hands on account of the awkward restraints.

"I was sure you were going to ruin our case earlier."

Cort stared at the cuffs, wishing they weren't there. "What did the judge say to you?"

Briers smiled. "It seems Henry Usher underestimated the mettle of Judge MacLean. He brought him here with instructions to encourage the jury to find you guilty and sentence you harshly. It turns out the good Judge is another of Usher's unfortunate victims and he's not playing ball anymore. He was reassured to discover how many men in Bisbee are in a similar position to his own, and finds himself with a perfect opportunity to do something about it."

Cort grinned. "Usher had better get used to sleeping in a cell!"

Briers refilled both of their glasses, "You can't stay in that jailhouse with Usher in attendance; it presents a fundamental conflict of interest."

"That's fine by me. I'll take a room in a hotel; I could use a decent bed for one night."

Briers shook his head. "You know that's not possible, not while you're still the defendant in this trial. There's a lockup here in the courthouse and you'll sleep there tonight."

Cort's mouth went dry. Usher might be temporarily compromised but his lawmen buddies weren't. He had other personnel in town too…

"If you shut me up in here I'll be a sitting target. Anybody could sneak in and…"

Briers interrupted. "I'll be here with you and once the judge gives permission I'll get word to Billy Reynolds to send Ben, Jack and Toby along. You'll be well protected by your own deputies."

Cort relaxed a little when he heard that, though he was still wary of spending a night outside of Billy's fortress. Briers left him alone with the bourbon but Cort noted the two bailiffs standing outside the door as he departed. Briers asked one of them to remove the cuffs but the man shook his head and said the judge had to give permission. A couple of minutes later Briers was back and he wasn't alone. He ushered Vivienne Furnell into the room and she smiled and glided gracefully towards him. Cort's heat began racing, blood pumped loud in his ears and he only barely heard Jonathan's words.

"I'm going to see the Judge and it might take some time. Viv will keep you company."

Then he was gone and Cort took a hasty gulp of bourbon and stared into his glass, embarrassed about the handcuffs and the reason he was wearing them. Vivienne sat down in the chair opposite him.

"I don't think I've ever met a man so shy. Are you always like this around ladies?"

She sounded amused and he shook his head and smiled ruefully. "This is the only time I've been around a real lady."

"That's hard to believe."

With an effort he pulled his head up and gazed at her, taking in her alabaster skin, soft, pink lips and sprinkling of freckles. She was wearing the green dress again; it matched her eyes."

"I've only encountered common women and... er… those of the night."

She smiled. "All those years you spent as a priest, you were chaste?"

He blushed a little. "Mostly."

"And after?"

He gazed at her intently. "May I ask why you're so curious?"

It was Vivienne's turn to blush. "I've been with only one man in my life; my husband and the father of my children. I loved him and desired him but I'm a widow of eight months now. While I mourn my loss every day, I can't help looking at other men and wondering… I can't seem to get you out of my mind right now, Cort."

Her words almost poleaxed him. If she was saying what he suspected then they were on very thin ice. She wasn't only intelligent and cultured, but beautiful and alluring with it. He was deeply flattered but couldn't begin to understand why she'd be interested in him. This wasn't the time or place to be even considering it either; not with her brother likely to return at any moment. He stood up and retreated to the other side of the desk, his face burning.

"Uh, when the trial's over and maybe I'm a free man, we could pick this conversation up again?"

She sighed. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. You have enough to consider without the words of a foolish woman."

"They aren't foolish, but there are better men to look at."

She seemed a little perplexed by that. "You're decent, honourable and brave. You fight for what you believe and people you care for. You have compassion, humility and God in your heart. I don't believe a man gets much truer than that."

"I'm a cold blooded killer, until that jury says otherwise."

She looked at him intently. "Not many people believe that."

The moment of awkwardness had passed and Cort ventured back to his seat. He sat and leaned towards her, speaking softly.

"For years I was as bad as all those witnesses made out. Their accounts might have been third hand and exaggerated, but at heart I was that man. I was greedy, violent and dangerous. I drank, whored and gambled. I had no morals or ethics and I took what I wanted when I needed it. Whether that happened to be money, property or a man's life, I felt no guilt and little remorse."

He was looking for some kind of reaction to his words but there was none. She reached for his hands and pulled them gently into her lap, eying the manacles.

"Are they hurting you?"

He shook his head.

"Everybody has a right to change and better themselves, Cort. The creature you once were no longer exists."

He bit his lip. "A part of him does, or I wouldn't be here now."

"A man has the right to defend himself, or he's no man at all. Greg did it with words, you used a pistol. You're both admirable and courageous men."

Cort was touched by her words. She knew what he'd been, understood what he was still capable of being, and yet here she was with his hands clasped in her own.

"You're a kind person, Vivienne."

She giggled in a playful manner. "I could be kinder."

That took him by surprise, he reddened again and she laughed. The atmosphere instantly lightened and he laughed with her. Jonathan came back into the room at that moment and seemed pleased to see them getting along so well. He had a key for the cuffs and released Cort from them.

"Judge MacLean gave permission for you to be kept here tonight, and he has no problem with your deputies standing guard."

Cort was distracted by Vivienne. She reached towards him again, grasped his wrists and rubbed gently at the wheals the handcuffs had left.

"You said they didn't hurt."

He smiled. "They were a little tight."

Jonathan poured bourbon for all of them and passed the glasses around.

"I'm going to stay with Cort and the boys tonight, Viv. Now the main business of the trial is over I'm free to do that. I'll walk you back to the hotel when you're ready."

She gazed at her brother. "I'd feel safer here."

He shook his head. "You wouldn't like it. There isn't much in the way of comfort, you'll be in some uncouth company and Henry Usher's supporters still pose danger to us."

Cort wondered if he was included among the uncouth company. Vivienne wasn't deterred in the slightest.

"If I don't care for the language I can put my fingers in my ears, Jonathan. As for danger…"

She released Cort's wrists and snapped her right arm sharply. A twin barrelled gambler's pistol dropped from the sleeve of her dress and into her hand. He couldn't help giving a surprised laugh when he saw it.

"Billy and his boys were real thorough in their search!"

She smiled. "A lady has more than one distraction up her sleeve."

Jonathan was gazing at her. "Just don't be complaining if things get tiresome, little sister!"

Cort couldn't imagine a better way to spend a nervous night than in her company and they made their way to the lockup presently, accompanied by a bailiff and one of Billy's deputies. The other bailiff was sent down to the jailhouse with instructions for Ben, Jack and Toby.

The place was bigger than Cort had imagined. It occupied half of the court's basement area, had room enough for ten prisoners and was currently empty. Cort took a tour: there was a cooking area, a communal area with hard chairs and sawdust on the floor, toilet facilities and two dormitories with five narrow bunks in each. There were small, barred windows set high up in the walls but they were covered by snow and the sun outside had long since sunk. It was so dark he could barely see and he tripped and stumbled a few times. When he returned to the kitchen Jonathan and Vivienne had a fire going and several lamps were lit. They were squabbling good naturedly about what to bring in for supper and he lit a candle then retreated to the nearest dormitory. Vivienne was a distraction and he needed to be alone to try and relax, consider the events of the day and prepare himself for tomorrow. He lay down on one of the bunks. It was chilly in the room and he pulled a couple of threadbare blankets over himself. He put his head on the hard pillow and let his thoughts drift.

He was awoken by Ben Carter shaking his shoulder.

"Supper's ready, Cort. You want any?"

His stomach growled. He definitely needed supper! He followed Ben, bleary from his nap, and found Jonathan and Jack Bellows joking together in the communal area. It looked quite cheerful, warmed by a wood burner and illuminated with a couple of lamps. Ben entered the conversation enthusiastically and Cort poked his head into the kitchen. Vivienne was in there, stirring a pot of something which smelled mighty good and humming to herself.

Toby was nowhere to be seen and when he enquired Ben informed him he'd gone back down to Billy's office to collect Cort's day clothes. It was a little after seven and the food was ready. They didn't wait for Toby but ate broth and bread and drank beer from a crate which had most definitely not been in the kitchen last time Cort occupied it. The mood was lively and sociable. Nobody wanted to go ahead and celebrate outright, but a positive verdict from the jury wasn't far from their minds.

Cort was on his fourth bottle of beer and beginning to feel the effects. Vivienne was entertaining him with tales of her youth and the various ways she would tease and torment her older brother. She'd enjoyed a happy childhood and a privileged life. No part of him resented it but her stories brought back memories of his own upbringing and younger sister. His early life was similar in some ways, but very different in others and they shared tragedy. Vivienne had lost a husband though still possessed both parents and her brother. Cort had lost his entire family by the time he was eighteen. He'd dealt with the pain, confusion and anger in the only way he could fathom – by burying it deep, refusing to give it light of day and running wild. It had worked well enough but Vivienne had awoken a desire to share that pain, knowing he'd have a sympathetic and understanding ear. The current situation precluded any such intimacy however and though part of him wanted to be alone with her, a more cautious part was damned glad that was not the case!

A persistent banging on the door to the lockup finally silenced the exuberant voices in the room. It took a while for the sound to penetrate, being as the door was up two flights of stairs and the conversation had become animated. Ben Carter went up to see what who was there, his Remington drawn, and things went quiet for a little while. Cort took a sip of beer, about to pick up his conversation with Vivienne, when two pairs of feet clattered down the staircase.

Ben and Toby burst into the room. Toby was red in the face and panting hard, like he'd just run a mile. He wanted to say something but was bleeding from a head wound and having trouble catching his breath. Ben spoke up instead.

"The church is on fire and Henry Usher is gone!"


	29. Chapter 28

Ben pushed Toby into a chair. The kid was swaying like he was about to collapse and blood was oozing sluggishly down his left cheek. Jack Bellows' eyes were narrow and his lips tight with suspicion.

"Who did that to you?"

Toby shook his head impatiently. He was still breathing hard and spoke with an effort.

"I slid in the ice on the way here; hit my head on a hitching rail."

Cort eyes were glinting and Ben sensed danger. He pushed his handkerchief and a beer into Toby's hands and spoke hastily.

"Tell us what happened, Toby. The whole story."

The kid took a few gulps from the bottle and pressed the handkerchief to the cut on his head. He tried to pull himself together.

"I went over to the jailhouse to get Cort's stuff but when I got there the street door was unlocked and it was empty save for that Deputy called Hawkes. He was tied up and gagged and looked like he'd been beaten pretty good. He said Billy and the rest of 'em went running down to the church when they heard about the fire and not long after the County Sheriff was banging on the door and demanding to be let in. Turns out he had some buddies with him and they overpowered Hawkes and left with Henry Usher…"

He paused to take a few sips of beer.

"Where did they go?" Cort's voice was low but the menace it contained was enough to turn everybody's head.

Toby shrugged. "All the roads out of town are blocked so they must be here somewhere. I untied Hawkes and went to the church; there's a big crowd of people all throwing snow on the fire but it's gotten a good hold and I reckon it'll burn to the ground."

"Did you see the priest?" Cort sounded agitated now and Ben glanced at him again. His whole body was tense, like a rattlesnake about to strike, and he readied himself, certain his friend was about to do something rash. Toby was shaking his head again.

"I didn't see him but I'm pretty sure Usher's gang started that fire for cover while they busted him out of the jailhouse."

"It was revenge." Cort got slowly to his feet, his eyes flashing. "That priest helped me today, spoke out against Henry Usher and now he's getting punished…"

Ben took a few steps back towards the door. He saw Jack Bellows get up, caught his eye and knew he was thinking the same thing. He kept his voice calm, though his heart was pounding.

"Me and Jack'll go to the church and see what's happening."

Cort shook his head. "If he dies it's my fault and I won't have another priest's death on my conscience!"

Vivienne Furnell gripped his sleeve and tried to pull him back into his seat but he shook her hand away impatiently. Jonathan Briers spoke sternly.

"Whatever idea you've got in your head, son, you can forget it. You can't leave this lockup without bringing a whole heap of trouble on yourself, so sit down and calm down!"

"Like hell!"

Cort lunged towards the door, knocking his chair over and scattering glasses and plates across the table and onto the floor. Ben braced himself but Cort cannoned into him with enough force to knock him back against the wall. He grabbed his arm as he tried to get through the doorway and a moment later Jack Bellows grabbed the other. Cort struggled like a madman, cursing and shouting, and nearly broke free of their hold until Jack Bellows' fist in his stomach gave them a brief respite. In the moment of quiet he heard Jonathan Briers telling them to lock him in one of the dormitories but even so it took the added assistance of Briers and Toby to drag Cort down there, fighting and screaming bloody murder the whole way. When they shoved him inside and threw the three sturdy bolts he sprang towards the door, spitting insults and glaring at them like a man possessed.

Ben didn't have the time or inclination to reason with him. He needed to get down to the church, talk with Billy Reynolds and tell him they had bigger problems on their hands than just a fire. For Cort's sake he hoped Father Reuben hadn't been inside the church when the fire started but, from Toby's description, he doubted anybody could have survived the blaze.

As they headed back to the kitchen it transpired that Jack and Toby were of a similar mind. Nobody wanted to stay inside while the situation in Bisbee was running out of control and even Jonathan Briers insisted on going to see the judge and apprising him of recent events. That would leave Vivienne Furnell alone with Cort. Ben had a few misgivings but told himself she'd be safe enough so long as Cort was locked inside the dormitory. There were two armed guards outside the main door at the top of the stairs and they'd given Toby one hell of a hard time when he'd tried to enter a few minutes earlier. They were court appointed, Ben was pretty sure they'd keep any unsolicited visitors out and besides, he didn't plan on being gone for long.

Vivienne was clearing up the mess on the kitchen floor when they returned. She straightened up and eyed them disapprovingly.

"Is Cort still standing or did you all find it necessary to punch him some more?"

Ben smiled grimly. "Cort's fine, but he's mad as hell right now so I wouldn't go near him if I were you."

Jonathan took her arm. "Myself and the boys are going into town for a short while. There are two guards at the top of the stairs and they'll have strict instructions not to let anybody else inside. Will you be alright on your own?"

She stared at him. "I'm not alone, Cort's here…"

Jonathan eyed her knowingly. "If Cort leaves this place he'll be considered an escaped prisoner and as such can be legitimately shot on sight. There are people out there prepared to do it as well, so think on that little sister…"

She reddened slightly and he nodded. "For his own sake, leave him where he is until we get back."

She simply pursed her lips, returned to the cleaning and they all trooped up the stairs. Ben left orders with the guards that nobody was to be allowed entry to the lockup and they hefted their shotguns and nodded their understanding. Briers peeled off to go visit the judge and Ben, Bellows and Toby shuffled and slid their way down the steep road which led to the church.

They were met with a scene of carnage. The church roof had collapsed entirely and taken most of the outer structure with it. Heavy roof beams and wooden joists were lying haphazardly, burning intensely and the heat had melted the snow for several hundred yards around. The gathered crowd seemed to comprise every resident of Bisbee and people were watching silently or conducting muted conversations with their neighbours. Everybody seemed dazed or shocked by what had happened and had given up trying to fight the blaze.

It took them a good ten minutes of searching faces before they came across Billy Reynolds. Three of his deputies were with him, including the injured man Hawkes and the deep frown on Billy's grizzled face grew even deeper when he saw them.

"Aren't you supposed to be guarding your Marshal?"

Ben nodded curtly. "Cort's concerned about Father Reuben so we came down to check on him."

Billy's expression changed and Ben's stomach twisted at the profound sadness on his face.

"We've all been looking but nobody's seen him since before the fire started and well… it's too early to be checking the ashes…"

Ben gazed at the burning scene before him but it was impossible to tell if any of the blackened and charred remains on the floor might have been a body.

"This fire didn't start by accident, Billy."

Billy scratched his beard. "I know it. This is Henry Usher's work."

Ben nodded. "And where do you reckon he is now?"

"Still in town. I'll get the boys looking as soon as we're sure this fire and crowd is under control."

Ben had a better idea. He beckoned Deputy Hawkes and the man limped over. His face was puffy and red and he was holding a bloody cloth to his mouth. Ben eyed him grimly.

"What happened after Usher's men forced their way into the jail?"

Hawkes shrugged. "They beat me, tied me up, then they took the keys and freed Usher."

Did they say anything? Give you any clue where they were going?

The man shook his head. "Usher said something about getting money so I figured they had a bank in mind but we checked 'em all and nobody's pulled a robbery. I reckon I must have heard wrong."

Ben frowned, he couldn't figure it out but then Toby butted between them and he looked scared as hell.

"Dammit Ben, it's _our _money he wants. He's going after Cort and we left him alone and locked in a cell!"

Ben glanced at Jack Bellows, whose expression confirmed his worst fears. Billy cursed hard under his breath. A moment later he raised his voice and rallied his troops.

"Everybody up to the courthouse, and prepare for a fight!"

Ben ran like Cort's life depended on it.


	30. Chapter 29

Cort sat on the edge of a bunk, shaking with frustration. The blinding fury which had gripped him so recently had diminished into a seething resentment which still threatened to boil over at any moment. It was only the searing pain in his left shoulder, a result of ramming himself repeatedly into the door of the cell, which reminded him how violent rage could deliver nothing more than additional discomfort. There was no way out of the cell; he'd yelled himself almost hoarse, shouting through the small, barred window set into the stout wooden door, but to no avail. His friends were either ignoring him or they'd all headed into town to check on the fire. Either way he was stuck here for a while and he clasped his head in his hands, trying to get a grip on his emotions.

Thinking clearly was difficult; images of the burning church, the dying priest came unbidden. He knew there was little he could do, even if he managed to escape the lockup the man was long dead and nothing would change that. He couldn't allow himself to feel guilty right now; righteous anger and the prospect of revenge on the people responsible felt so much better.

"Are you alright?"

A woman's voice. Vivienne's! He jerked his head up and stared through the portal in the door. She was holding a candle and its light formed a dim halo around her head. It was dark in the cell – Cort had kicked his candle over early on during his rampage – and he realised she couldn't see him.

He approached the window. She looked a little nervous when she saw him and, with a stab of embarrassment, he understood why. He gazed at her silently, unsure what to say. She'd witnessed him acting like a rabid dog and he sincerely wished she hadn't.

"I don't think I've ever seen a man so angry..." She gave a nervous giggle.

"I'm not angry now." His voice sounded raspy and resigned. "The priest is dead, Henry Usher's to blame and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

"You don't know he's dead. The others went to find out what's happened and they'll be back soon. I bought something for you."

She pushed a bottle of beer through the bars and he clasped it and took a few eager gulps.

"I figured you'd be thirsty after all that shouting." She giggled again but the nervousness had vanished. He was grateful for that.

"I'm sorry you saw… that you heard..." It was Cort's turn to be nervous. "I'm not proud I acted that way but I was feeling scared and guilty and…"

She was shaking her head. "You're a passionate man. You were trying to do what you felt was right and help somebody you care about. I respect that."

Cort hadn't known how tense he was until she uttered those words. Her opinion of him was more important than he'd realised and it seemed she wasn't about to judge him on his recent behaviour. He felt the tension drain from his body and he took another few sips of beer, watching her carefully over the rim of the bottle. She seemed to read his mind before the thought had fully formed.

"It's just you and I here, Cort. Jonathan said I wasn't to let you out of this cell until he got back. He's gone to see the judge but he won't be long."

Cort nodded. He wasn't about to insult her by insisting she go against the express wishes of her brother. He was still thirsty and he finished the beer in a few gulps, wishing there was more.

Again she seemed to read his mind. "Can I fetch you another?"

He smiled. "I'd like that."

"I won't leave you alone. I'll stay with you until the others come back."

He was relieved to hear it. Talking with Vivienne kept his mind focussed on things more positive than anger, guilt and revenge. He watched her tall, slim figure walk down the stone passageway which connected the cells to the rest of the lockup. The candlelight grew gradually dimmer and then she made the sharp, right angled turn, where the passage fed out into the communal area, and then he couldn't see anything at all. He sat down on the edge of the bunk and waited. The intense darkness of the cell seemed to hone his senses, or perhaps his imagination, and he fancied that in the far distance came the creaking of wood, a murmur of voices. He went back to the window and peered through, his heart beating faster. Was it Ben and the boys returned with good news… or bad? He strained his eyes and ears but everything was dark and silent, until suddenly he heard light footsteps approaching fast. Seconds later Vivienne's face was pushed up against the bars. He only knew it was her by her scent. She was breathing hard and spoke in a strained whisper.

"There's a whole bunch of men sneaking down the stairs, Cort. It's nobody I know..."

Cort's stomach twisted. He had a good idea who they were. It seemed Ben Carter had been right the whole time and the burning church was merely cover for more insidious activity. He was pretty sure what that activity would involve but Vivienne couldn't be part of the looming ugliness.

"Did they see you?"

"I don't think so."

Cort didn't dare raise his voice above a murmur but tried to convey the urgency of his message to her.

"They can't know you're here! Go into the other cell and hide beneath one of the bunks…"

She interrupted him, sounding frightened and anxious. "I can't leave you in there. I'll unbolt the door and…"

"Dammit Vivienne, if they find me locked up they'll think I'm alone and won't come looking for you!"

"What are they going to do?" She sounded terrified now and Cort struggled to keep from feeling the same way. He kept his voice calm and low, willing her to see sense.

"Do as I say. Go hide and if you get a chance find the others and tell them what's happening. There's no sense both of us getting captured."

Finally she obeyed, murmuring something as she left though he didn't catch her words above the pounding of blood in his ears. He stayed where he was and a moment later he clearly heard voices. There were several men out in the communal area and they obviously saw no need for secrecy any more. Bright light appeared at the top of the passageway and two figures came towards the cells, one carrying a lamp, and he moved away from the window as they approached and pressed himself against the wall behind the door. When they looked inside it would seem as though the cell was empty, though he doubted it would fool them for long. He could tell by the angle of the light that they'd gone into the other cell first and his heart hammered. He hoped to God Vivienne had hidden herself well and it seemed she had because suddenly the lamp was shining through his window, casting long, thin stripes of light down the centre of the cell.

"Ain't nobody in there!" Cort didn't recognise the voice but it sounded lazy and dismissive.

"Then why the hell's it locked?" The second voice was superior and patronising. He didn't recognise this one either. "

Cort knew a face was looking through the bars because of the rank breath which blew into the room. He held his own breath, his heart pumping fit to burst. If they came in he might have a chance, use the element of surprise to overpower them, seize their guns and shoot his way out of this trap…

His slim hopes were dashed when the superior sounding voice spoke again.

"This cell's locked for a reason and I ain't going in without Mister Usher's say so. Go get him now, Bates, you hear?"

Evidently Bates heard because his quick footsteps receded rapidly but, before Cort had any time to collect his thoughts, they were returning and accompanied by many more. The cell got suddenly brighter, as though the larger company were all carrying candles and lamps, and then he heard a voice he recognised; cultured and urbane.

"I never expected it to be this easy but it seems lawmen really are as stupid as I keep hearing, current company excepted, of course."

There was a round of snickering. Usher's voice again.

"Let's have a reckoning shall we? I saw three deputies and one attorney at law leave these premises not ten minutes since. That leaves one prisoner unaccounted for and I think he's locked right here in this cell."

Cort was almost paralysed by fear. He didn't know how many men were outside but it was way more than he could deal with alone. He listened as the bolts were drawn back and then the door was opened cautiously. An arm came through the gap, clutching a pistol and he saw a chance. He hurled himself at the door, ramming it back against the jam, trapping the arm in the space between. He heard a yelp and a curse and the gun dropped to the floor. He lunged for it in the same instant the door was flung violently open from the other side, colliding solidly with his head. The impact sent him sprawling backwards into the cell, pain exploded in his skull and all his senses went dull.

He was dimly aware of a lot of people in the room, voices raised in jubilation and mirth, and a few hard boots collided with his stomach and ribs before Henry Usher's stern voice ordered them to stop. He was too dazed to take much in but Usher continued to talk and he felt ropes tied to his wrists and rough hands gripping his arms. He was pulled along for a while and then on the floor. He wasn't there for long; he felt pressure on his wrists as the ropes tightened and then he was being dragged forcibly upwards until he was hanging upright, his arms pulled painfully above his head. It was a familiar sensation and he cast about his incapacitated brain to try and find the reference. It came eventually. The stormy night in the Marshal's office in Redemption when Henry Usher had him tied to the roof joist. Just like this…

He heard a voice protesting as he was dragged onto his toes, just like before, and he thought he recognised it but couldn't figure out who it belonged to. Then Henry Usher's voice cut in, sounding a little muffled.

"Wake him up. He's no use to us like this."

He was hit full in the face by a torrent of icy water, cold enough to take his breath away and he coughed and spluttered, barely able to breathe. It had the desired effect though; suddenly he could see and hear again and he shook his aching head, trying to force water out of his eyes, then gazed around.

His situation was not good. He was surrounded by men and he counted nine of them. Henry Usher, the Marshal of Tucson and County Sheriff he knew, Mayer Anderson was there as well and, with a shock, Cort recognised Father Reuben. His face bore signs of rough treatment but the expression he wore was a curious mix of defiance and revulsion. The remaining four men were strangers but their identity hardly mattered. They were muscle for hire and were standing close around him, ready to do their job.

Henry Usher stepped up and eyed him balefully.

"Seems we've been here before, Cort. Last time you were an inconvenience but now you've got something I need. I won't let you die until you've given it to me."

Cort forced a smile onto his lips, though it was the last thing he felt like doing.

"What you want is buried in the desert, Usher, and I'm the only one who knows where. Even if I felt inclined to give you a description of the place, you'd never find it."

One of the thugs slapped him hard across the face. The force of it made his left ear ring but he could hear Usher's voice well enough.

"I'm willing to take that chance."

Usher stood back and nodded to the four thugs.

"Get to work, boys."


	31. Chapter 30

Vivienne Furnell watched, horrified, as the four men surrounding Cort each took a turn at punching him. On the express orders of Henry Usher they steered clear of his face and head, but everywhere else was fair game. They were standing so close she couldn't see his face, but she heard him grunting with pain as the blows landed. After he'd taken four hard hits they stepped back and Usher asked him again where the money was hidden. Cort's face was pale; he was sweating, breathing hard and had difficulty getting the words out.

"Go to hell, Usher!"

She'd waited several minutes, long after the commotion in the cell next to hers had ceased, before shimmying out from under the bunk where she'd hidden. It was obvious they'd captured Cort and she'd crept down the passageway, heart in mouth, and watched them tie him to the roof joist and throw water over him. She was at a complete loss for what to do; the communal area was full of men and there was no way she could cross the room without being seen. For a while she figured she'd wait it out, hoping Jonathan, Ben, Toby and the others would return quickly but, when they'd started in on the violence, she realised time was a luxury none of them had. Cort was getting hurt badly and she was certain he wasn't about to give Usher the information he wanted.

Usher was standing with his back towards the passage where she was currently ensconced, hidden in the shadows and she saw him motion to the thugs who were looking at him expectantly. She watched as another four, crippling blows rained down on Cort's body. He barely made a sound but it was all she could do to keep from crying out in anguish. She'd only known him a few days but the powerful attraction she'd initially felt had swiftly turned to emotions so intense she hardly dared acknowledge them. It was deeply unbefitting for a society lady and recent widow to be falling in love with a former outlaw, killer and small town lawman, but no amount of rationalising would make those feelings diminish even a little. Now she was losing him. In the unlikely event Cort broke down and gave Usher what he needed, he'd be killed on the spot. If he didn't talk, he'd surely die from the injuries being inflicted on him as she watched helplessly. ..

The thugs moved clear again and her stomach churned. Cort was hanging limply from the rafter, his head lolling forward. Usher issued a curt command and one of them grabbed his hair, yanked his head back and slapped him hard across the face. There was no response. Cort was out cold and Usher ordered the same man to fetch another pail of water. He grabbed the empty bucket with bad grace and she heard him stumping up the stairs which led to the ground level of the courthouse. His three buddies took their ease, some of them rolling cigarettes.

Henry Usher took a few steps back, bringing him so close to Vivienne's hiding place that she could have reached out and touched him. She held her breath as he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his silvering hair. She glanced around the room at the other occupants. The county sheriff and marshal of Tucson were standing together, talking amiably as though they were out for a stroll on a summer afternoon and, a few feet behind, Mayor Anderson and Father Reuben were watching silently; both of them looked absolutely appalled and the Mayor seemed as though he might puke at any moment. Usher's head swivelled to look at him.

"Do you find this distasteful? I find it a most effective way to encourage co-operation."

The Mayor's jaw dropped. "I knew you were a pitiless man, but I thought you had at least a little moral fibre. You're about to kill a helpless, unarmed man and it seems to me you're enjoying the process!"

Usher shook his head. "You're an imbecile, Anderson. Nobody complains when a rabid dog is put out of its misery."

Anderson stared at him. "I was in that courthouse, Usher, and I believed what those defence witnesses said. He's a better man than you'll ever be and he doesn't deserve to die like this."

Usher shrugged. "If you don't like it then I strongly suggest you leave. Things will only get uglier and I don't want to offend your delicate disposition!"

The marshal and sheriff sniggered and Anderson scowled. Father Reuben's face was red and he seemed about to speak. Usher addressed him.

"Something on your mind, Reverend?"

The priest just shook his head and stared at the floor. Vivienne heard footsteps clumping down the stairs and when the thug with the bucket returned, she knew the beating would begin again. She had to do something, quickly, and instantly she knew what it was. Heart pounding, she snapped her right arm, activating the release on the holster hidden in her sleeve and the two-shot gambler's pistol dropped into her hand. She cocked it while everybody was still off-guard and chatting, darted into the room, grabbed Henry Usher by the collar of his expensive coat and put the gun to his head.

"Call off your dogs or I'll kill you where you stand!"

The room abruptly fell silent and everybody tensed. Five of the men drew their guns and the one with the bucket dropped it on the ground with a clang. She raised her voice a little.

"Drop your guns and raise your hands or I'll shoot him dead!"

They didn't move, just stood there with their guns pointed in her direction. She moved behind Usher, using his considerable bulk to shield herself.

"Call them off, Usher, or I'll shoot you in the head!"

Usher's voice was calm and collected as he replied. "I don't know who you are, young lady, but I assure you none of this is necessary."

"Don't tell me what's necessary, you son of a bitch!" She spoke the words contemptuously. "You killed my husband so you might say I have a debt to settle!"

She felt Usher tense but his voice remained calm. "I take it you're Vivienne Furnell and it's unfortunate you feel that way. I knew your husband and found him to be a fine, upstanding man, but his death was suicide and nothing more. Cortez Thompson, on the other hand, is a worthless criminal and I don't see why you're involved in this affair."

"That's not your concern." She pushed the pistol hard against his skull and he grunted with pain. "Tell them to drop their guns."

Usher raised his voice. "Drop them, boys. We've got a crazy woman to contend with but I doubt she'll be able to keep it up for long."

The other men placed their pistols on the ground and then simply stood there, looking at her coldly. Vivienne found herself in something of a dilemma. Even if she could find the cold-blooded instincts to kill Henry Usher, she'd be shot in return for his death. The alternative was an uneasy stalemate which couldn't last for long. All the men were steeled, ready for action and somebody would surely make a move…

Father Reuben stepped forward cautiously. While she was relieved to see him alive, she wasn't certain why he was here in the lockup or whose side he was on. When he picked up the pistols belonging to the marshal of Tucson and county sheriff, cocked them and aimed them at their owners, she got a pretty fair indication. He spoke to Mayor Anderson.

"Now's the time to make amends. Throw off the shackles of oppression and denounce Henry Usher forever!"

Anderson stared around the room, looked at Henry Usher nervously for several seconds, then moved towards the nearest gun. Vivienne saw the four thugs eyeing each other and knew they weren't about to stand there and let it happen. At that moment many pairs of feet began thundering down the stairs and her heart jumped; it seemed the cavalry had arrived. Perhaps disturbed by the noise, Cort chose that moment to moan quietly and she glanced at him with concern.

The small moment of distraction proved disastrous. Henry Usher moved quickly and his elbow collided solidly with her solar plexus, the force of it robbing her of breath and slamming her back into the wall. She fell to her knees, retching as all hell broke loose around her. There was shouting, gunfire, darkness, screams, bullets ricocheting off hard, stone surfaces and a smell of sulphur and saltpetre intense enough to set her coughing fiercely. She had just enough sense to crawl into the passage and round the angled bend which led to the cells, putting her out of range of any stray bullets. Eyes burning and streaming, she waited for the fight to conclude.

Things went quiet presently but she couldn't move. She remained hunched against the wall, legs pulled up close to her chest, sick with worry and fear, her ears ringing and head spinning. Eventually she heard footsteps and saw a light coming closer. Somehow she'd managed to keep hold of her little pistol and she aimed it carefully, ready to shoot whoever came round the corner.

A figure loomed into view, but the light streaming from its lantern blinded her and she couldn't see who it was. She tightened her finger on the trigger.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot, you bastard!"

The lantern was placed on the floor

"That's no way for a lady to speak!"

She almost shouted for joy when she heard the voice. Jonathan! She leaped to her feet and threw herself into his arms.

"Why did you take so long to come back?"

He hugged her tightly. "We ran into some trouble at the top of the stairs. Usher left a couple of his gang there and they took some persuading to let us in."

"Is Cort alright? He was tied up and barely conscious when the shooting started.."

Jonathan stood back and looked at her gravely. He didn't need to say anything and her stomach clenched up in knots of fear. She dodged past her brother and raced to the communal area, pulling up short as she entered a scene of carnage. There was only one lamp illuminating the space but she could see well enough to be appalled. There was smoke, bullet holes everywhere, several corpses, men injured and groaning and the beam where Cort had been tied was empty. Billy Reynolds and Jack Bellows were standing together and talking intently; bleeding and grim faced. Two deputies were levelling shotguns at four men in the corner, which included the county sheriff, and another group was huddled near the kitchen. With a start of horror she recognised Toby, Ben Carter and Father Reuben; all occupied with something on the ground. She approached slowly, heart hammering, already certain what she would find.

Cort was unconscious and bleeding from a wound in his leg. The priest was murmuring under his breath and she hoped to God it wasn't the last rites. Ben had Cort's head pulled into his lap and his own was bowed, his hair hanging in his face so she couldn't see his expression. Toby was pressing a cloth to Cort's midriff and it was soaked with blood. She put her hand on his shoulder – he was trembling as much as she was – and he looked up, his face blood-streaked and pale, his eyes red. His voice shook as he spoke.

"The leg wound's from a ricochet, nothing to fret about, but he caught the other bullet full on and I reckon it's still inside him…"

The knots in Vivienne's stomach wrenched tighter. Her throat closed up and she felt like screaming, but she struggled to keep her voice steady.

"You're a gifted surgeon, Toby. Greg talked about it all the time and you even impressed those snooty tutors at your college. You're the best man to take care of this."

Toby stared at her for a moment and then nodded. Something in him changed and suddenly he got a grip on himself.

"I need to get my stuff, and you need to move him somewhere more sanitary than this hell hole."

He jumped to his feet and nudged Ben. Ben raised his head and his face was streaked with tears. Toby eyed him sternly.

"Blubbing won't help him, deputy. Take him into the courthouse and lay him on one of those big tables. I ain't got no chloroform so get ready to hold him down!"

He pushed the bloody cloth into Vivienne's hand and left in a big rush. Father Reuben muttered something about attending the dead and then melted away into the shadows. She knelt and pressed the rag to Cort's wound, terrified by his bone white complexion and shallow, ragged breathing. To try and keep from panicking, she stared around the dimly lit communal area, this time paying close attention to the detail. It seemed to her there were at least five bodies who weren't moving and she eyed Ben curiously. He was looking up the stairs after Toby and wearing a mutinous expression.

"Do you know who died here today?"

Ben squinted around the room. "By my reckoning it was the marshal of Tucson, Mayor Anderson, one of Billy's deputies, some feller I've never seen before and Henry Usher!"

Vivienne's heart began pounding. "Usher's dead? Who killed him?"

"I don't rightly know. It was chaos down here with hardly any light. I took a shot at him but I couldn't see for shit; it could easily have been a stray shell that killed him." He shrugged. "Either way he's dead, and these boys of his ain't going nowhere."

Vivienne grabbed his wrist and pushed the rag into his hand. "Keep the pressure firm on that wound, don't let him bleed to death!"

She went to the kitchen, lit a lamp and then made a cautious tour of the room. Jonathan came to join her, slipping his arm about her waist as they gazed at the dead men. Henry Usher was indeed one of them; a bullet had passed through his throat, which was most likely what had killed him, but she counted a number of other wounds on his body. It seemed as though plenty of men had been shooting at him and Ben had been correct in his estimation; Mayor Anderson, the marshal of Tucson, a Bisbee deputy and a hired thug were all dead. Of those still standing few seemed to have escaped injury and Toby was looking at a long night ahead of him.

Vivienne was too numbed by the images to take much in. Henry Usher was dead but Cort was grievously injured and that was all she could focus on. She squeezed Jonathan's arm and he turned to look at her.

"Toby needs men to hold Cort while he removes a bullet. Will you help?"

Jonathan looked a little queasy but nodded reassuringly.

"I'll do what's necessary." He smiled. "He's still my client, after all."

"We need to move him into the courtroom."

Jonathan seemed wary. "I don't know what the judge will think of that. It's a place of law, not a field hospital…"

"To hell with what he thinks." She was surprised by the force of her own voice. "Cort needs medical attention or he's going to die!"

She pulled away from her brother's embrace and went back to Ben.

"Can you find enough men to carry Cort upstairs and restrain him?"

Ben frowned. "You'll take care of him?"

"You know I will!"

He nodded then hurried over to Jack and Billy, spoke urgently and then they all began herding the remains of Usher's gang towards the cells.

The rag covering Cort's wound was awash with blood and having very little effect. She tossed it aside and ripped a swatch of cloth from her skirt. It was a thick, absorbent material and suited her purpose well. As she pressed it to his midriff his eyelids flickered open but the jolt of joy she felt was quickly overridden by doubt and fear. This was more likely delirium than a return to consciousness.

"I've arrived in heaven and met an angel." His words were soft, almost inaudible but she heard them clearly. Then he smiled and her heart melted.

"You're not dead, Cort, just hurt a little. We'll take good care of you."

He gazed at her. "When you left me in the cell, after I told you to hide, you said something but I didn't catch the words…"

That took her by surprise and she struggled to recall the memory. Suddenly it was there and she blushed a little. The words had been spoken in a moment of peril, fear and uncertainty and, although she'd meant them sincerely, she wasn't sure she could repeat them now...

His eyes were dark with pain but he was watching her intently.

"I didn't catch them..."

She made a decision and, whatever happened after this, she was bound to live by it. She leaned down and kissed him softly on his cold lips.

"I said I loved you."


	32. Chapter 31

Ben Carter hurried down the steps of the courthouse, almost slipping on their lethal crust of ice. A brilliant morning sun was shining onto the snow covered street and creating a glittering spectacle, though the smell of burnt wood and rising plume of smoke lower down the hill proved a bleak reminder of the previous night's events. If things had panned out differently he'd have been in a jubilant, celebratory mood right now. He'd just heard the jury in Cort's case return a unanimous verdict of not guilty; that the man who'd brought the original charges was recently dead had not diverted the course of justice in the slightest.

Afterwards Jonathan Briers stayed to talk to the judge, who was smiling broadly, while Jack Bellows and Billy Reynolds, both wearing bandages, had gone to talk with the men of the jury. The news of Henry Usher and Mayor Anderson's deaths had spread through the town like wildfire and the upbeat mood in the courthouse was close to riotous.

Ben couldn't share that joy. All he could think about was Cort; hurt and unconscious, and he was eager to return to his bedside. They'd placed him in Billy's bed, upstairs in the jailhouse and Toby and Vivienne watched over him all night, reluctant to leave him for any longer than a few minutes. Ben had managed to snatch a few hours sleep and being the freshest, volunteered to attend the courthouse. There wasn't much he could do for Cort right now except watch and worry, but he hoped the good news in his possession might help revive the patient. Cort had been out cold since the surgery last night and the reality of the situation was that they still didn't know how badly he was injured.

The bullet wasn't the problem; Toby had pulled it from his guts quickly and efficiently. Ben would have marvelled at his skill but was occupied with holding Cort down. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since the gunfight and had unfortunately woken up just as they laid him out on the courthouse table. Toby explained what he was going to do, that he had nothing to serve as anaesthetic, and told Cort he should try and keep from thrashing about since it would aggravate his other injuries. Cort received the news stoically but not many men could have laid still for the procedure and it had taken Ben, Jonathan, Billy and Jack to restrain him. Vivienne and Father Reuben were present for a little while, but Toby banished them from the room when they began to look ill. Cort had moaned, occasionally screamed into the rolled up bandage they'd placed between his teeth, then passed out just as Toby removed the bullet with a triumphant cry. The whole thing had been over in less than two minutes but it seemed to Ben like a lifetime and, from Cort's perspective, probably more like purgatory.

He felt utterly responsible for Cort's predicament. If he hadn't been so quick to run down to the church, or to lock his friend in a cell with nobody outside to protect him, perhaps he wouldn't be laying here now, beaten within an inch of his life and covered in blood. The whole company had reacted with shock when they'd removed Cort's shirt to reveal the terrible marks all over body; Vivienne had let out a little scream and even Jack Bellows' breath whistled between his teeth. Toby had given the injuries some careful scrutiny, once he'd stitched and bandaged the bullet wound, but he had no way of knowing if Cort had sustained internal injuries, might even be bleeding inside. Only time could tell them that.

The actual events of the gunfight emerged slowly as the long night progressed, and Ben tried his best to piece them together. Although everybody's version of the story was slightly different, Vivienne's smart thinking and bold actions disarmed Usher's gang for long enough to give the arriving cavalry a small advantage. Before the lights went out at least three guns had been fired at Henry Usher; they belonged to Jack Bellows, Billy Reynolds and Tobias Furnell. Toby was pretty sure Mayor Anderson fired too, and Father Reuben might have been involved though he swore he hadn't used the pistols in his grasp. It irked Jack Bellows royally that nobody could lay actual claim to the killing of Usher, though Ben was satisfied he was dead and saw no need to dwell on the matter. While everybody else seemed to have been shooting at Usher, Ben was shooting at the rope holding Cort to the roof beam. He saw it break just as the lamps got destroyed, intentionally for sure, and lunged in that direction, throwing himself on top of his buddy as bullets whistled around his ears. Unfortunately he hadn't been fast enough. Somebody's bullet had been much quicker…

Ben reached the jailhouse and bounded up the stairs to Cort's room, anxious to share the news. The scene he encountered was pretty much as he'd left it: Toby was slumped in an armchair; eyes closed and snoring gently. Vivienne was perched beside Cort on the bed, mopping his face with a cloth dipped in a milky potion she'd brewed herself. The fire in the grate had burned low and there was an edge of chill in the large room. Ben threw a couple of logs on then shook Toby's shoulder gently. The kid was totally exhausted - he'd spent hours patching up all the men injured in the gunfight, then sat up all night with Cort. His eyes opened slowly and he squinted at Ben.

"How'd it go?"

Ben smiled. "A unanimous verdict of not guilty!"

Toby yelped with glee, leaped from his chair and squatted on the other side of the bed. He leaned close to Cort. "Did you hear that, marshal? You're a free man, goddamit!"

Cort didn't stir, Ben hadn't really expected him to, and he advised Toby how he'd best get some sleep before he collapsed. To his surprise the kid obeyed without hesitation. He addressed Vivienne in turn.

"You as well, ma'am. It doesn't need two of us to watch an unconscious man."

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving him."

Ben felt a pang of irritation. "I'll fetch you if anything changes but please get some rest; you'll be no use to Cort if you get sick on account of exhaustion."

His words seemed to reach her and she rose from the bed and gazed at him.

"I'll nap one of the cells. You be sure and call if you need me!"

Ben nodded curtly and she left the room with a final, lingering look at Cort.

That she cared for him was beyond question but that particular look confirmed Ben's suspicions. She was in love for sure and it should have made him happy, but right now he could only think about losing his best friend. If not to death, then to a woman.

The next few weeks passed slowly but eventfully. The snow finally began to melt, the roads out of town cleared enough to permit travel and there was a great exodus as the townsfolk of Redemption rode home and the remnants of Usher's gang, those who hadn't been arrested, bolted for freedom. Father Reuben was fully occupied with planning and organising the construction of a new and bigger church while Randy Quirrell from the Blue Swan had put himself forward as a contender for the Mayor's position. He seemed a popular choice.

Jack Bellows spent a lot of time in discussion with the men of Bisbee who'd fallen foul of Henry Usher. He organised their financial recompense and then lit out for Tucson, intent on picking up the pieces of Usher's ministry and keeping the church business running on an honest basis. He planned to re-allocate the stolen money in Tucson's banks to its original owners and was accompanied by Judge MacLean. Freed from Henry Usher's tyranny, Maclean seemed to have made it his life's ambition to bring the rest of his guilty company to justice.

Toby for his part was doing pretty hot business. His reputation as a doctor and surgeon had spread quickly and folks were coming from Bisbee and the territories beyond to take advantage of his skill. But something in his eyes told Ben he wasn't really happy doing this. He was only a kid after all; he dreamed a life of adventure and still looked at Cort like a hero. Ben had little doubt that wherever Cort went, this talented little pup would follow.

Cort regained consciousness two days after getting shot. He was weak and hurting but by then Toby had sourced enough laudanum to ease the pain. There was a lot of blood in his piss and waste, and it hurt him to eat and drink, but there were no signs of the internal injuries they'd all feared. He was back on his feet within three weeks but it was another month before he was strong enough to do anything useful.

He called Ben into his bedroom one day, explained how Redemption was currently without any kind of law enforcement and asked him to return and take up the role of acting marshal. Ben didn't want to go, didn't want to leave his friend and wasn't even sure he'd see him again. Heart thumping, he asked the question.

"When you're strong enough to ride, what will you do, Cort?"

Cort raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I mean, will you come back to Redemption or head on up to Phoenix?"

Cort smiled. "I don't think Phoenix has much call for an extra marshal. You be sure and take care of my town, Ben Carter."

Ben frowned. "Are you certain you're coming back?"

"There's four hundred thousand dollars buried in the desert, Ben. Sure I'm coming back."

Ben couldn't take much comfort from his words. He'd seen the way Vivienne looked at him, the way Cort looked back, and how they took every opportunity to be alone together. Love could over-ride pretty everything important in a man's life and he was damned sure it was love he was witnessing here. Redemption didn't seem like much of a proposition if Cort wasn't going to be there and it was with a brusque farewell and heavy heart that he finally took leave of the best friend he'd ever known.

As he headed into the desert and Bisbee receded into the distance, he turned in his saddle and looked back at the little town on the hill. Cort was still up there somewhere, preoccupied with love and a whole new set of priorities. Ben wondered what life might have in store for each of them now.

FIN


	33. Chapter 32

EPILOGUE

Cort lounged in his regular chair on the hotel porch, beer in hand, and watched the evening traffic on Redemption's main thoroughfare. Things were generally peaceful but a lot busier these days, on account of the town's growing size and reputation for strong and abiding law. The zero tolerance policy on gunplay and violence saw many reputable families and businesses attracted to the area, and the newly installed telegraph line gave birth to countless rumours and excited gossip about the railroad coming.

It was nearly nine months since the events of Bisbee, autumn was taking hold and Cort was enjoying the cooler temperatures in the evenings. Plans for the upcoming Day of the Dead festival were well advanced and he couldn't help smiling as he considered just how different his experience of this year's event was going to be.

He'd pretty much recovered his physical disposition: his guts still ached in the morning, he was forced to avoid coffee, whisky and spicy foods, and he regularly experienced nightmares of being held down forcibly while white hot pokers were thrust into his stomach. Other than that he felt just fine…

He spotted Ben Carter leaving Horace's saloon and begin walking towards him. At the other end of town, Toby came out of the Marshal's office and headed down. The three of them met like this every evening, discussing the day's events and tomorrow's business over a few bottles of beer. Toby was always tired but young enough to handle it. Many of his patients in Bisbee had proven happy to make the trip to Redemption in order to continue treatment, and the locals all saw fit to take advantage of him as well. He was juggling this thriving doctoring business with his marshal's duties but refused to give up on either. Old Doc Wallace was lingering on in gleeful semi-retirement.

As he waited for them to arrive, Cort's eyes drifted to the building opposite the hotel. Blown apart by gunpowder almost a year ago, the ruined wreck was long gone and a new church had sprung up in its place. It was nearly finished and would be a fine addition to the town when it was done. Cort looked forward to the day when he could again attend Sunday worship, but consistently turned down appeals for him to become Redemption's priest. Father Rueben had become a good friend and he'd recommended a young preacher who was just itching to take on his first congregation. He was due to arrive any day now and Cort was looking forward to meeting him.

His time with Vivienne Furnell had been intense and joyous but ultimately brief. For nearly two months he could only look at her, burning with intent but physically incapable of doing anything about it. Once recovered enough he'd made up for lost time and the fire of their passion frequently aggravated his healing injuries. However the things which had drawn them together also served to push them apart. Their shared intelligence, strength of will and independent nature meant he could not entertain the idea of moving to Phoenix, struggling with society status and playing surrogate father to her children. She in turn would not countenance moving to a small, frontier town and living as a lowly marshal's wife. Without the frisson of danger and fear to bind them together, the tears in their relationship soon stretched to breaking point. They'd parted amicably, as friends, and he often missed her company though Kitty kept him well enough entertained in the bedroom.

He'd recently received a letter from the US Marshal's office. It put his employment onto an official footing and they even sent him a new badge, though he preferred to wear the one Ellen had given him. The letter contained details of a fairly generous salary, to be paid into Redemption's new bank on a monthly basis and since the recently flush town council were also remunerating him, he used the balance to pay Ben a decent wage. Toby didn't need paying, he was making a fine living as a doctor but in spite of that they were all still sharing the jailhouse. Ben refused to move out of the second bedroom and Toby preferred to bunk in a cell unless they had prisoners, in which case he temporarily moved to the boarding house. Cort had the strongest impression these two men would follow him to the ends of the earth; the idea was quietly pleasing.

He'd also had a letter from Jack Bellows, stating his intention to remain in Tucson and run Henry Usher's old business, and reminding Cort about the four hundred thousand dollars still buried in the desert. Jack would be sending representatives along for it presently, but wouldn't be attending himself. Cort was sorry to hear that. He missed Jack, his sardonic humour and sarcastic tongue, though he sure didn't miss his hard fists and unforgiving nature…

Ben and Toby reached the porch together and exchanged greetings. Ben went inside to get some beers and Cort smiled as he recalled the day he and Toby had arrived back in Redemption. He could still picture the look on his deputy's face: Ben had been so pleased to see him he'd been unable to speak or hold a proper conversation for fully two days, though he'd stuck to Cort like a dog and hadn't let him out of his sight for a moment. He was still a little like that now, all these months later.

Toby flung himself into the chair beside Cort, pulled a letter from his pocket and passed it over.

"I picked this up for you today; looks like it's important…"

Cort turned the letter over in his hands. The envelope was brown manila and bore the seal of the US Marshal's office. He smiled at Toby.

"Just the latest wanted list, I reckon."

He tore it open and read its contents quickly then, frowning, he read it twice more. He took in every word slowly, not quite believing what he was seeing.

Ben joined them and pushed a beer into Toby's hand. The kid was watching intently and seemed a little edgy.

"Ain't bad news is it, marshal?"

Cort's heart was pumping fit to burst. Another piece of his past had just reared up and bitten him hard in the ass. He gazed at his two deputies.

"What do you know about a man called Ben Wade?"

FIN


End file.
